My valley is the Eastern Cape’s backyard,

a rubbish tip where scrub and thorns abound,

no birds risk landing in this human cage,                

my township with barbed wire all around.

...

My shack has leaning walls and leaking roof,

windows without glass and a splintered door,

there is no running water, sink, or light,

no rug or matting on the earthen floor.

 ...

There are no cupboards, units, sliding drawers,

no pictures, clock, or ornaments on shelf,

no curtain, cushion, sofa,  easy chair,

no mirror to reflect my starving self.

 ...

I own no change of clothes, machine or book,

I’ve nothing hoarded, new, unused or spare,

I’ve never had a gift, or handled cash

to give away, lend out for gain, or share.

 ...

Desperate, I wander up and down the track,

mad for miracles, watching Hope combust

to barren ash in sunset’s deadly flames,

reviving daily, as every phoenix must.

updated by @americymru: 11/24/16 06:05:05PM