Poem
Chris Magadza
PROSPECTO
PROSPECTO
PROSPECTO
Why do I dream dreams
Undreamable?
And hope for hopes
Irretrievable?
And hear
The unconceived song
Of a perished faith
When the rumbling ashes,
The tearful sorrows,
Are the only hopes
We ever knew?
Why do I hear the chorus
Of unsung hymns?
And regret wrongs never done?
And mourn the death of nations
Not born,
When the incense of gunfire
And canisters of tear gas
Are the daily offerings
We bring to the alter of
Black birth?
Fool.
The past never was.
But the creation
Of a malarious brain.
Undreamable?
And hope for hopes
Irretrievable?
And hear
The unconceived song
Of a perished faith
When the rumbling ashes,
The tearful sorrows,
Are the only hopes
We ever knew?
Why do I hear the chorus
Of unsung hymns?
And regret wrongs never done?
And mourn the death of nations
Not born,
When the incense of gunfire
And canisters of tear gas
Are the daily offerings
We bring to the alter of
Black birth?
Fool.
The past never was.
But the creation
Of a malarious brain.
© 2006, Chris Magadza
From: Father and other poems
Publisher: Poetry International Web,
From: Father and other poems
Publisher: Poetry International Web,
Salisbury, 1966
‘Prospecto’ was written in 1966, after Rhodesia’s illegal declaration of independence.
Poems
Poems of Chris Magadza
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PROSPECTO
Why do I dream dreams
Undreamable?
And hope for hopes
Irretrievable?
And hear
The unconceived song
Of a perished faith
When the rumbling ashes,
The tearful sorrows,
Are the only hopes
We ever knew?
Why do I hear the chorus
Of unsung hymns?
And regret wrongs never done?
And mourn the death of nations
Not born,
When the incense of gunfire
And canisters of tear gas
Are the daily offerings
We bring to the alter of
Black birth?
Fool.
The past never was.
But the creation
Of a malarious brain.
Undreamable?
And hope for hopes
Irretrievable?
And hear
The unconceived song
Of a perished faith
When the rumbling ashes,
The tearful sorrows,
Are the only hopes
We ever knew?
Why do I hear the chorus
Of unsung hymns?
And regret wrongs never done?
And mourn the death of nations
Not born,
When the incense of gunfire
And canisters of tear gas
Are the daily offerings
We bring to the alter of
Black birth?
Fool.
The past never was.
But the creation
Of a malarious brain.
From: Father and other poems
Salisbury, 1966
‘Prospecto’ was written in 1966, after Rhodesia’s illegal declaration of independence.
PROSPECTO
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