Bunguswa Writes.

River reeds are dying Chirping of the morning birds is fading, that melody that lulls children back to sleep; distant and stubborn like a sheep, now slowly ailing to death. What can ail a river to death? What can ail a river to death? It's been full of life and health Alone and palely flowing, but birds too are dying in thrall° are the waters gently flowing to the grot° of death. Gently flowing to the grot° of death, in a wailful chant the river mourns of the diminishing zeal that echoed life Of the murmurs that awoke frogs And the satisfied splash that nourished lilies. But what ails the river to death? But what ails the river to death, if in the abundance of drowning bodies it's fed If heavenly tears replenishes it's flow, when the dark cloud frowns and cries? A river that forgets its past might die, shrinking to the stone-core water without. Shrinking to the stone-core water without, and ghosts of drowned bodies are emboldened Rising each day in their united ...

How do I talk my son into believing, that today's sun set in the morning? For decades he's listened to my daughters- of tales of the sun that rests in the west Today I tell him the sun bathed in the mud, when he demands why of a gloomy morning. He says papa today the sun is mourning, When he sees the dark cloud cry. Today's sun has set in the East- With the gloom morning rains our eyes So with my son we cry Hopeful, in  the west it will rise again. ©Bunguswa Brian™