the boiling stream.

The village stream is boiling,

fish and river reeds are dying-

but our food baskets are yonder the stream.

For generations the stream has been pure;

we drunk and bathed in its flow of cure,

but our stream is boiling-

and the future blurring.

Our stream was cold with a gentle flow,

lush were its banks that could glow.

Now hot and rushy like a desert snake,

bites but no cure for our wounds.

Are the mountain gods angry,

when king and kin are appetized and hungry?

But our baskets are yonder the boiling stream.

If to hunger we will succumb;

or yield to thirst that's come,

remember our baskets yonder the boiling stream.

© Bunguswa Brian ™