Bunguswa Writes.

We'd once burnt our butts, in a quest to relieve a life sanctified but on blisters we sat uncomfortably long, nursing injuries of a turn so wrong- those were wages of dignity deferred, torn and drizzling in inconsistent spurts. And we thought we had nothing to fear, our hearts and mind were numb from the pain, but we're now afraid of the fear that shreds us to pieces: this fear that never ceases, we're afraid our efforts might never gain, life's golden prize that we held dear. We've been dragged in anguish with no place to hide, like an ambushed and homeless mice; we know the futility resident in our running- for with renewed vigour we ended up crying, beckoning tears that fall behind the bravery of our eyes, reminiscent of the struggle that is oft° subjugated. ©Bunguswa.

Whoso desires listen to the song; this that shrinks our muscles tiny, this that salts our every ceremony, this that faints where we belong? For so long our yearning's been wrong- when our usual dance's been declared a felony, and we reminisce when we were brainy; and the power of choice was a weapon so strong. deafening was the echo of our wisdom: our strength in overcoming attrition, rising over turbulent waves of tribulation, but today we brood, resigned like an old broom. In our prayer, strength from above we seek, a cake walk be our journey to the peak. ©Bunguswa .

Let me off the hook; this that holds me imbalanced, against the turbulence of life's tribulations. Let me go,  when my voice can still sing you. Unchain my feeble arms; give me a chance to breath afresh- one last gulp of the acrid air, before my lungs you deflate, by your mass- over my resigning frame. Let me go; though for my voice you are famed, through my palms you've thrived- to heights that crush my bare head.  Unchain me, when I still can stare, when my lungs can still bare, the scarcity of fresh air. ©Bunguswa.