A walk in the streets of Harare,
Once the affectionate him of her,
No longer the beaving heaven,
I used to know,
The pothole infested streets,
And the dilapidated buildings,
Tell the story,
So do the people,
And the atmosphere,
Unfortunate crossfire victims,
Of circumstances,
Poverty is written all over,
Like advertisements on billboards,
Everybody looks like a street kid,
Men, women and children,
Shops are very empty,
Yet pockets are heavily loaded,
When you stand at a shop entrance for a short while,
People come to form a queue behind you,
For anything you need,
The magic process is queuing,
Is this the hand of enemies of freedom,
Apostles of oppression,
Through out the lengths and breadths of Salisbury,
In homes, garages,  Hospitals, at funerals,
Queues are the order of the day,
Harare lived,
And Harare led,
One time humble midwife,
For the restoration of your people’s peace,
An important part of their mortal bodies,
You are now a dry season for everybody,
What has now gone wrong Harare,
Who is responsible,
You decided to become nothing,
And you have become the best nothing,
Who is responsible Harare,
Shame on you.