He looks down again from there where he stood,
As though none of the sounds was understood.
He stood and sat and stood and wandered,
He stared at the window where the sun shone,
Drops of sorrow from his Windows meandered,
Down his cheeks and all hope was gone.

Life is so like drama where grammar is ignored,
Where everything is fictitious,
That, with little makeup and mimicry
One suddenly becomes a new character,
With a new personality and friends.
But deep within they still bleed so deeply
That even death becomes sweeter.

He sat down again, and held his pen firm,
Firm in his hand against the wet paper.
Then he wrote again; Shembe is The Way,
His tears connected him with Him deeper,
He never thought of returning but retaining
The current connection and circuitry.
Back down there is a set of nervous conditions.

The bulls are fighting but the grass is dying,
Chemical warfare is nothing but witchcraft,
Where wars are fought not militarily,
But in the Laboratory weapons are forged.
As he spoke to himself the sunset responded,
The beginning of the end is marked by
Such nervous conditions.

He looked again through the windows,
As the sun rose towards the sunset.
Tears reflected the twilight to the dome
Of his head and his brain cells were excited,
So he wrote again; Shembe is the African Messiah,
But again he stood and read the book of Prophet Isiah,
As though to confirm the truth of his thought.

As he read, even the days and nights there in Africa
Became so small, so short and so quick to die.
The rains down there in Africa drip from the ground,
Up to the black skies where hell has been created,
From the souls of Corona and coronary victims,
And that rain so thick as the blood of the innocent,
For, Africa has always thought she was at a feast,
Alongside her fellow sisters yet she was the feast.

But here where the man sits with fears of the future,
He then remembers the promise by The African Messiah;
‘They will pay for all the cruelties they performed on your forefathers.’
Somehow he believes one day after Corona has left,
All else shall be nothing else but freedom,
So he held his pen tighter and continued to write;
Shembe, Lord of our fathers heal us in these
Nervous conditions we are trapped in.

After a while writing, he left the world of imagination,
Came back to flesh, and felt all the fresh pains
Of the menstruation of his eyes.
He walked out of his room, watched the moonrise,
And death sooner became sweeter than life,
He burst into tears once again for real,
He went back, sat right and continued to write:

“We will fight Corona to the last drop of our blood,
To the last syllable of recorded time we shall stand together,
Not for fears but the tears we have shed by his spears.
He will die at the end, but his footprints will be engraved.
Corona, has come to unite us all by dividing us all,
Divided on united nervous conditions.

We will never forget the foot-shakes instead of hand-shakes.
We will never forget the soccer matches that were never played.
The relationships, friendships and lives that were terminated.
Social gatherings and migration could never be tolerated.
Corona has brought the whole world to a stand still!
But still I say by fire by thunder we will never go down without a fight.
Let the family for once unite against these nervous conditions.”

By The Black iPoet.