The morning is a song
heaves rhythms as denuded
hills sway in the sun.
Lord it is time that this hiatus is over.
It is time that the children keep
dancing on mother earth's barren fields.
It is time that the beggar admonishes
sullied vistas. It is time
that friends stop the blame game.
It is time that chiaroscuro of skies
unbends to pour rains of desire.
It is time scavengers enter worldly homes
and those inside turn upside down.
It is time howling dogs become depraved
to scatter fruits of the earth.
It is time for benisons.
Faces upturned our sunburnt myths
will regale.
Raconteurs will tell wise stories of
not wise men but prophets
of doom.
It is time that ghettos of misery
become hot beds of a revolution
not of blood
not of blood
