It's our time to hunt.

My dear children, let's gather at the fire place,

and chew this bone that binds us in one piece. 

The moon is slagishly disappearing on us,

with the dullness of each minute that passes.

Dear sons and daughters under the moon,

hunger bites as we munch hours with our words,

shrunk by the stings of cold in anticipation,

for our papa and  warriors out for a hunt.

The moon is fading away. So are our expectations,

of morrow° for a meal promised.

The warriors aren't returning,

and time pierces through to morning,

cuddling us to utter stooges of hunger and pain.

Papa returns pot-bellied, embellished, with a fat chick.

A bad day it was in the field he says,

belching with fullness of life-

but on our sides, breakable bones are counted.

Tomorrow will be a good day my sons, papa says,

and the warriors in unison nods, to unrhythmical whims of papa.

Accustomed they are, to clapping and nodding,

Yes, to laughing and smiling;

at his jokes not so expensive.

Arise dear sons and daughters,

gather your arrows and bows, 

let's die for a hunt, lest we succumb to hunger.

Dear sons and daughters, let's endure the day's pain,

and watch morrow° glow.

For a hunt is out only pulp,

Let's go for what papa never brings,

it's our time to hunt.

©Bunguswa™