mxolisi dolla sapeta
a man
he brings heap of wrath with his heart
his pockets cannot carry the clout from the metals he digs
below the bleating soil that suffer scarifications each dawn
he buries his bruises and beard there
every day ─
and comes home to his children and wife timid and exhausted
does not tamper with dreams anymore
god knows he knew what he knew about the world
the muted screams from battered lovers; taste of their blood
he travels to the four-hundred-year old missing dialect
inside the belly of nothingness and rock a chair where the rain ends
he continues to buckle his suit higher and tighter
as long as it bears a price tag that shelters his brains
sometimes he dies like everything, like courage or heartbeats
and at the end of each day all he wants is a state funeral
a word from the strange priest who looks like an important man
and when there is nothing left in him
the sun leaves him to the bottom of the soil he has been digging
and the grinding begins to nibble at him until there is nothing but the soil