Monday, 22 November 2010

War Song

The drums beat, the guitars scream
The kayambas rustle, the growl
Of the discordant singers
Screech on ears
Of the awed listeners

And the music goes on.
They have heard the butter-soft music
When the soft patter on the drum
Rose to fever pitch until it split dramatically
When the sweet strum of the guitar
Rebelled into a rascal of a jabbering chatterbox
When the hum of singers climbed steadily
And became frothing flowing river of debris
Charging, agitating, wrecking havoc
We the listeners of this dilapidated music
Demand our sanity
You whisked away, roughed up and killed
Leaving us the unproud owners of these jagged skulls
And sunken eyes we are today

C) Lorot Salem 2010


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