Missing: Peace Kilimanjaro Poem by Sarah Mkhonza

Miss peace Kilimanjaro she says,
I will come on the mountain so,
tall this woman birthing up here,
quiet after storms waiting, knowing.
Now grey for wishing and loving,
hoping and pining for quiet. I stand
Miss Peace on this mountain peak,
speaking peace quietly to the world.
When the rain shows up here quiet,
down there quiet, all can see the truth.

I speak truth for it is raining peace up here,
No war down there, no show of cruelty in breath.
Breath full of war runs out up here.
'T is real peace we can touch this peace Kilimanjaro.
We can leave peace for future generations
For Kilimanjaro stands regal, waiting for all.

No fighting up here, but Kilimanjaro rising, regal
going up in an endless search to win the contest
of life. To have people come to the summit and touch,
the flag they leave here written, 'Peace Mt Kilimanjaro,
Peace in a world of strife we need.

Love knows no summits for nobody calls summit after
summit. The love conference blown by the flag up here,
invites all to see themselves in the other. Egos speak
and claim nuclear bombs built in lands and spoken in peaks,
and summits and this mountain stands silently, challenging
all. This question is one she speaks. Can a world as still
and peaceful as Mt. Kilimanjaro.

The combat is on and one by one they fall yet one by one
we are called. Come mountains of the world join in the
silent speech and call the world to your summits for summit
after summit they discuss this peace and keep on talking.
To sit on the top and talk may be the chance to take the
crown in endless meetings and do the real thing of putting
enemies in one bed by speaking one talker to take a crown
and put it on the other and declare peace between warring
factions on the top of Mt. Kilimanjaro.

Stands to reason, one day. To get two warring factions
to hike and get up there will require getting a crocodile,
with the hardest skin to call them to order. Mt Kilimanjaro,
missing quiet, create a way for two hard skinned enemies,
to come up and breath where the breath runs out. For we
have run out of tricks to do the work of words. They climb
on top of each other, like worms chowing a rotten deer
by the roadside. After the smell, the fight nothing remains.