He walks about like a grasshopper
Black like charcoal,
Smeared with grease,
Carrying a sack with odds and ends
All his treasured possessions in this world
He was a genius in school some say,
A jealous aunt with a brood of failures,
Bewitched him,
Now he staggers about,
His soul buried in the dirt and the grime
He was a youth militias others say,
Killing and terrorising the innocent,
His hands drip with blood,
And the spirits of those he killed,
Now ride on his back,
Like a witch on a hyena's back.
(c) P. Chidavaenzi, 2010
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