They pain me so
dreams of myself walking through lands
in my youth i never saw,
places my mind has never known,
floating through strange fields
with gray grass and coopering crickets,
from the bright sunlight
my hands acting as my eyes shields,
straining to cast minute glances
across rusty wire fences

at my brothers...holding black shovels
digging...no sweat forming on their brows
knots beginning to tighten in my bowels,
digging....clad in black suits
with black shirts and white ties
straining to cast minute glances
at my brothers bending to pick up a white box
wishing that it could be all a hoax
trying to move nearer
the wind holding me still
i pride myself as one with nerves of steel
yet i scream,
and scream...beg them to stop
why do i scream?
what am i afraid of?
i am in a dream....they are there
i am here.....I scream

my head stares at me from the top of the box
covered in glass, resting on a white pillow
my brothers look up at the skies
tears already welling up in their eyes,
hesitating as they stand by the graveside
summoning up all the courage they need
to throw me their brother...onto the other side,
I call out to my sisters
i hear them singing songs of old
the ones we were told
never to sing besides the kraal
i call out to them
sisters sing songs of life
not these of strife
dance with me
for i am here with you,
they do not hear me
the tears still flow down their cheeks
as serene and final like the flow of the nyamatsanga,
all i have known and laughed with
gathered without me...but around me,
gathered to cut off our relation
the living and the dead cannot be part of the same constellation,
like the missionaries of old, they recite prayers
to guide me through my journey home
like the warriors of old,
they silently yearn that my spirit will stay with them, guide them and protect them

Above me
those who left before me
call out to me in silence,
beckoning me to rise
their calls reaking with sadness
yet laden with promises of happiness

My dreams pain me so
all i have loved
in queues with teary eyes
hands trembling, shuddering at the echos from this pit,
as they pick up moulds of clay
throwing them at where i lay
i blink at every throw
i hear the clay drumming against the box
i try once more to move closer
but they disappear before me
leaving me in the company of only the wind

They say to die is to rest
what rest can one know
when such dreams possess you so

Learn more about this author, Tinashe Severa.
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