It's beyond metaphor, nor smile in oxymoron,
And lies in the hands of irony.
Only fragments in ink can define the monotony
Of politics punctuated by propaganda.

Needs beautification by speech in parliament,
Mocked by silence in the streets of Kliptown.
Revolutions delayed by curriculum in class,
Looted resources, from plants in gardens and porches
In Santon and the heart of Africa.

Building gutters that can swallow the tears of poverty
From ghettos where politicians campaign,
And democracy hollows out freedom.

It's beyond metaphor, nor smile in oxymoron,
And lies in the hands of  Azania.


By Makhosonke Dhlamini

Five hundred twenty-five thousand, six hundred minutes pass,
Frozen breath in mirrored glass.
Mist, like dew, upon the rose does lie,
Embracing petals, blue as morning's sky.

We grasp the fleeting scent, so rare and fine,
But seconds slip, lost in time's grand design.
Traces remain, etched in history's rhyme,
A testament to moments lost in time.

Perhaps Time's voice should whisper low,
Lest silence claim the hours yet to flow.
For 525,600 minutes, like an ocean wide,
Remain unfilled, a paradox of time.

Makhosonke Dhlamini