You can tell by a pale shadow of former self
And  shape of the scattered pieces
You can tell ,
From the pieces of the once bread basket of Africa
That someone is slowly
And artistically looting the store 

I can see,
The trailing blood and the aura of warmth
That there was once,
Electrical pulse of the heart
As povo cry,
For broad-based  
and inclusive Dialogue to rescue,
Yes!
I could hear,increasing  calls  for  precipice
And wails to  avert further  implosion
  
And the winds of memory floating by
The crescendo in the calls for sound talks
Yes sound dialogue,
In the wake of an  increasingly restless citizenry struggles

Still dustbin  of a golden history
You can sense from the tremble of the chambers
The undying pulse and the scent of a beloved
That the heart once danced to a dreamers' beats

To them tears are,
The horse pipes they use to water their worth
To multitudes,tears are words the heart can’t express
As the black cloud  sheds  rays  of hope  
Still leaves “imminent light” behind

As the mass bank hope
In our eternal message of hope
Ushered by Martin Luther King, Jr.
  "One day  dawn will come".

I can see  traceable  traces
Of corrupt foot prints
And  traceable track record
Of 'prominent' looting finger prints

As the influential turn aside the needy from justice,
Rob the poor Chimanimani people of their right,
Making widows  their spoil,
And *****-nilly  making the fatherless their prey!

Dear LORD!
Why  your wrath  upsets not these moral monsters?
Who are by no means worthy of following
Those that deprive the afflicted
Those who because of their  hard and impenitent hearts
Attract your necessary reaction to objective moral ill

Dear Lord why has your  wrath not fallen
On rightful  time?
How can hell be just?