The Body Poem by Thabani Khumalo

Still as a stone
Waiting to be picked and thrown.
I have an enemy within - from whom I need to be exorcised like a taunting demon, he is always the same temperature as the changing atmosphere, low when it's cold, high when it's hot and he's even wet when it rains. He is a tempest to the mind like a raging storm is to calm.

My body is a burdening baggage I need to dispose of Because it is heavy but I can not have it laden. For thus, my body is an enemy I can not bear to stand. It can not think as I would love for it to, it only sees as far as the circular horizon, ears hear irritating sounds from stern languages, it can't travel to places I'd need for it to go (my spirit goes far and it remains at the same place) , it can't manage the physics I'd long for it to manage, it is a host to disease and because of its guarantee of suffering - I am extremely horrified in the jolts of my mind.

My body is a full round of infirmity; a bag of useless matter I have to carry to places I don't wanna visit. I'm compelled to let time pass me by as I care for it when it rests. It seems to not attract for me the precious things I am fond of.

For whose good do I have to bear this formidable curse? I have not seen life gratify me for its endless care. I work everyday to try and make it glitter, but after a while, it is heavily engrossed with a wax of filth.

For whom do I have to nurture this shell of agony?
To whom should I seek to borrow, until the end of days, this slave to the master and a temple to myths? The will of the spirit is killed by this same enemy, which carries the worst form of a devious evil. Whose loss will it be if this dull pilgrim of a handicap would finally shatter?
If I die, who will claim to suffer?