Zewande BK Bhengu, #CSPSlam Ch.2 One on One slam winner’s winning poem.
We build our lives on the bones of infants.
Children taken by genocide
Orchestrated by serpents.
These mass graves will eventually become pavements.
But plastic and leather fabrics don’t age well.
So when the rain comes
and peels away at these shallow graves
All you see are shoes coming up to the surface.
Children of Palestine
Daughters and sons of slaughter
Children of suicide
who grow up eating blood and mortar
children of genocide
Who now eat bullets and torture
children of land-mines
Explosions are coded in your laughter
children of atom bombs
who have to go looking for their parents the morning after
Children of firearms
whose story ends in Gaza
There was life here
Where children now lay
without arms and without legs
where earth is a burden
and the sun never falls
where the wind is a tyrant
and the sky never dawns
where fear never sleeps
and breath is a torment
where children never speak
of their mothers
who are raped and totured
Peace has no profit
so war is the answer
The media is an accomplice
‘Cause money is an anchor
Silver spoon children are apprentice
on how to make banter
of a country that’s in tatters
and God never answers
These apprentices are taught how to weave
music from the sounds of screeching beings
their fathers are conductors of symphonies
They compose music from the sound of bombs, guns and screams
In the silence, they let go
A smooth crescendo
From the music a child loses his torso
His home is turned to a No-Go-Zone
and in the army, this tune is well known
from the front-line to the back-row
They stand in an orchestra
Playing guns in kill minor
and bombs in explosion sharp
Their wind instruments are tanks
That blow homes in thunder
the back riffles drumming attacks
Families torn and ripped asunder
This Orchestra is funded by corporates and banks
so is it any wonder
The media dances here.
It gets paid to pretend to care.
Children do not C4 themselves.
The carry explosion packs
laid on by foreign hands.
Can you imagine
Your own children?
You can see it in their eyes,
A part of them wants to forgive and forget
and move on.
The other parts are still splattered on the wall.
They were bearly foot soldiers
who died not knowing they were at war.
Their mothers exist
only to cradle tears to sleep.
Who are these Goddesses
who dare to give birth
in the barren parts of the earth in search
of the luminous serpent
the florescent purge
of a soul, born to a virgin.
between these crumpled infant bones.
A heart she can call home
long enough to watch him stand on his own.
Pregnant women are tortured to miscarriages.
They miss courage in missed carriages.
the media comes and massages
the minds of those who listen
The soul of a miscarried child never leaves the womb.
Gardens of life are turned to heavy tombs.
Collecting dust that never shakes and never moves
But the music keeps playing.
It’s a musical.
And the coiling dance of Palestine is in display.
plays music that begins and ends in dismay.
This may –
be the last song heard by this herd
These conductors are also DJs
They scratch this song back
and keep it on replay
Now the streets are morgues.
Where crows come to feed
where peace is at war and death comes to breathe
Limbs hinged in place by the wind
bodies rocked to sleep by this symphony
wrapped in explosive hymns
Natives rigged and trapped in violence
and border-line perpetually thins
Souls ascend to the sound of sirens
They bomb your schools
and the dreams you keep
They beat you in your dreams
and poison you in your sleep
They break your spirit
and white phosphorous covers the scene
Where has the UN been
Paid off by the US who has been
Obsessed with Osama Bin
Laden citizens with fictitious drama
Thin prayer lines flood the Gaza
Skin made slave to pain, it’s master.
And they keep this record on replay spin.