“You have not done enough, you have never done enough, as long as there is still something to which you can contribute.” – Dag Hammarskjöld
African dawn, no chanting, no death call.
A strange and aery silence has fallen in the presence of the rising sun.
Only the tall yellow elephant grass shushes it’s drying seed heads, in the pollen scented breeze.
On the ground mutilated and torn bodies lie; the old grey father once so proud his ivory tusks still now, the only movement the play of light upon them.
His glorious cow elephant lying next to him with unseeing eyes, her baby torn in two.
All casualties of a war now ended.
Land mines cruel and un-distinguishing.
Matabilie, Shona Tribes or any unlucky species. Some will thrive no matter.
The arms dealer who sells to keep the fragile peace. The poacher to hack the Ivory.
Of you and me my brother of the warrior blood, just silence now.
We must sanitise our land of the unseeing mines that kill even in peace time.
My Africa, never changing yet ever changing. My land so torn apart by tribal bloody civil war, silent and united in grief.
These nations that must live in peace and rest in shame together.
Side by side to beg once more in countries beyond the sea.
The white men who took our people as slaves, our gold for money and our diamonds for ornaments on rich white fingers.
We will come to you for the sake of peace, to keep the hope of peace alive.
Tribal peace, fragile, resentful, anger and old grudges trapped by need.
Peace, a glass bottle left lying in the grass it might ignite into war once more, oh my forefathers spirits protect our peace.