The big hand strikes 5am and
The birds begin to chirp of
The previous occurrences
Of What they eyed,
Sheltered in branches,
The city was alive before dusk.
The silence broke the warmth of the night
Now the houses and streets reek of emptiness
As the star rises, lights are turned off
By early birds that are marching to labour
For rewards that put food on the table
And their eggs - they continue
To narrow their eyes - knowing
Their nests are safe places to be -yet
Unaware of whether their tree
Will follow and also be doomed
Then there are those who go where
The wind shall direct them,
Tomorrow might just transform
Everything for them.
Leaving behind the imprudent ones
To wearily slumber in order to rid
Their system from the intoxications that
They consumed last night when
Strangers were family.
They will awake to their aimless lives and
Begin to accuse life for all their misfortune.
YOU ARE READING
In the Wee Hours Of The Morning
Poetry- This is how Soweto feels like in the early hours of the morning when people go to work, children go to school and the others are only going to sleep as they were busy throughout the night. It is a poem.
