Standing In The Plains Into Which I Was Born Poem by Sarah Mkhonza

Am I what the world was waiting for,
looking at my trail right now.

It zig-zags and disappears behind me leaving me to go on for I am looking for
the zenith of my life.

If I lived a life of gear,
the results are written on
the faces that received it.

If I was filled with hope, it
equally shook the earth.

The wind swept above my head,
my hair told the story of woe.

Out in this valley of windy storms
There is one national anthem.

Prepare for the next storm it runs,
Before you are caught wit your pants down.

The altos rings the melody swaying trees,
blowing tree tops to one side.

Puddles form and water as runoff escapes
into holes. The ground teaches it the
game called sip away.

The drought comes and we ask where it's
cousins arid and candid are.

The answer we are told, lies in the
coming winter that will come drier than
ever.

If I was born of wetness, I must answer
why the sun burns this hat less valley.

I was told the answer is known only to
bald men, for they constantly
ask why the sun burns their hairless spot.

In this valley into which I was born,
stands no princess with no pot of water,
on the head. The storm blew the pots into
a pile of debris.

When it is over, what remains is work and nothing but work. Let us work on.