Poem
Chris Magadza
THE SEASONS
THE SEASONS
THE SEASONS
It is not time to go
But we have said goodbye;
It is not time to cry
But the laughter is over;
It is not night
But the day is spent.
What is the time?
Not time to hate,
But love is stale;
Not time to mock
But the venom is ripe;
Not time to kill
But the smile has shrunk
And the spear is sharpened.
What is the time?
It is not time to regret,
But the failure is complete;
Not time to die,
But the breath is spent,
Nor time to live
But the child is born.
But we have said goodbye;
It is not time to cry
But the laughter is over;
It is not night
But the day is spent.
What is the time?
Not time to hate,
But love is stale;
Not time to mock
But the venom is ripe;
Not time to kill
But the smile has shrunk
And the spear is sharpened.
What is the time?
It is not time to regret,
But the failure is complete;
Not time to die,
But the breath is spent,
Nor time to live
But the child is born.
Salisbury, 1964
© 2006, Chris Magadza
From: Father and other poems
Publisher: Poetry International Web,
From: Father and other poems
Publisher: Poetry International Web,
Poems
Poems of Chris Magadza
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THE SEASONS
It is not time to go
But we have said goodbye;
It is not time to cry
But the laughter is over;
It is not night
But the day is spent.
What is the time?
Not time to hate,
But love is stale;
Not time to mock
But the venom is ripe;
Not time to kill
But the smile has shrunk
And the spear is sharpened.
What is the time?
It is not time to regret,
But the failure is complete;
Not time to die,
But the breath is spent,
Nor time to live
But the child is born.
But we have said goodbye;
It is not time to cry
But the laughter is over;
It is not night
But the day is spent.
What is the time?
Not time to hate,
But love is stale;
Not time to mock
But the venom is ripe;
Not time to kill
But the smile has shrunk
And the spear is sharpened.
What is the time?
It is not time to regret,
But the failure is complete;
Not time to die,
But the breath is spent,
Nor time to live
But the child is born.
Salisbury, 1964
From: Father and other poems
THE SEASONS
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