Nothing sleeps dead than a wall rooted to the ground,
It is a sanctuary of the mind’s business,
an art, cultivated since the beginning of man
though it was mended with mortar from sanity and water from peace.
It has its rights over the sun during the day,
the figure to what the wind dreads.
Solitude may confine
to preach its silence as one of a kind.
It defines the hunter and his limits
watches the kraa kraa, boom of metal bullets
some pass through, some are stuck.
They give birth to trees of curses.
When you stand behind yours, I will call you by your name – neighbor
I will tell you ‘good neighbors make peaceful fences’.
Here, we do not ask who walls in or out.
We do not admire cows on the other side,
we do not talk of the other side,
we raise our chickens chuckling in silence.
Here, the ashes of envy is scattered with the air.
Light has to go off there if mine goes to, no trees alight.
The tone of sorry is a joke from tear-less horror.
Seeds will have conversations with the ground
what they say is no business of yours,
It doesn’t give room to shift my sun or holla’ at my moon.
In the quiet if your tomorrow always remember
‘Good neighbors make peaceful fences’