Poem
Chris Magadza
This Land
This Land
This Land
This land . . .
This tired
Old young land;
The youngest of
Africa’s daughters;
Once the beacon of
Her future, now
Grown weary and old
At puberty:
Her breasts;
Once promising
To nurture a nation to fullness
Now parched,
Having given no milk.
This stillborn nation . . .
The aberration
Led by ancient ghosts
That see not the darkness,
But the darkness sees them;
Slowly creaking
To appointed death.
This tired
Old young land;
The youngest of
Africa’s daughters;
Once the beacon of
Her future, now
Grown weary and old
At puberty:
Her breasts;
Once promising
To nurture a nation to fullness
Now parched,
Having given no milk.
This stillborn nation . . .
The aberration
Led by ancient ghosts
That see not the darkness,
But the darkness sees them;
Slowly creaking
To appointed death.
© 2012, Chris Magadza
Poems
Poems of Chris Magadza
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This Land
This land . . .
This tired
Old young land;
The youngest of
Africa’s daughters;
Once the beacon of
Her future, now
Grown weary and old
At puberty:
Her breasts;
Once promising
To nurture a nation to fullness
Now parched,
Having given no milk.
This stillborn nation . . .
The aberration
Led by ancient ghosts
That see not the darkness,
But the darkness sees them;
Slowly creaking
To appointed death.
This tired
Old young land;
The youngest of
Africa’s daughters;
Once the beacon of
Her future, now
Grown weary and old
At puberty:
Her breasts;
Once promising
To nurture a nation to fullness
Now parched,
Having given no milk.
This stillborn nation . . .
The aberration
Led by ancient ghosts
That see not the darkness,
But the darkness sees them;
Slowly creaking
To appointed death.
This Land
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