The graves are silent

Listen, did you hear that?
The frogs croak in the muddy stream,
The hollow winds whisper their vacuity to the dried bed of leaves
That lies in front of that mushy patch,
Did your ears capture the ominous howling of the owl?
In the coldness of the night
The crickets incessantly creak,
Indifferent to the dim rays of the moon
Yet in that mushy patch, it is silent,
The accursed lot is tight lipped
In the unholy soil, there is creepy silence,
It cuts the air into tangible fragments.
Meek, like castrated bulls they be,
Silently subservient to an imperial order,
A royal condemnation.

They watch on with apathy
As talks in the bustling city continue,
Talks;
Justice
Reconciliation and cohesion
Then they silently laugh, perhaps at their macabre
Perhaps at the tears of their beloved condemners
Their talk of love for all, no tribes, nay
In their permanent confines
Their exquisite six-inch deep mansions
They mourn silently,
They are silent.

A farmer weeds his Sukuma wiki,
Ummh! The ground is hard
Then he looks at his wife’s grave,
The winds are dry
The weeds choke his crop,
A peek again, the reeds clog the grave.
The farmer is mad
He hates; he hates them
The weeds and the reeds
The great leader in an Italian suit
And the murderous neighbor with bloodshot eyes,
He despises them, their cries
Forgiveness and justice,
No battles in courts,
No battles in real war, just peace
Yet their blood thirst left her wife in pieces,
Forgive and forget-it is an old adage.