In a country where top government officials can influence the admission of unqualified students into secondary schools without being prosecuted by the Anti-Corruption Bureau; where the ruling party dictates the distribution of public funds and positions; where peculiar discounts are offered to peculiar buyers, the fight against poverty is just an attempt in futility.
We will always embrace the sting of poverty as long as we allow corrupt men, disillusioned octogenarians, inconsiderate legislators and fearful murderers to decide the fate of our progress. Freedom will only be enjoyed by those in power if we don’t rise up and change the course of our nation’s progress.
Ask the state president if he is feeling the pangs of the poorest villager in Chididi in Nsanje who cannot have her millet ground because the only mill in the village has run out of diesel. Ask him if at all he is concerned with the soaring prices of basic commodities. Better still, let the president give his opinion on the increase of maize price at ADMARC by 50 percent.
Well, if at all we haven’t reached a point where we can be described as a failed state, then no country has ever had. Even Zimbabwe has the audacity of asking those who think it is a failed state to check with Malawi first. That is how ironic state affairs tend to turn out. The very same country that was on its knees, asking anyone to assist it – including Malawi – is now placing itself above us.
The end of this year is closing nigh but there is no single hope for Malawi, for the poor, for posterity. In fact government officials are not promising any improvement: we should just brace ourselves for more problems. They are problems experienced in Malawi and not Zambia or Mozambique; problems hatched by this administration and not our neighbours or our donors. We are rolling in inequities masterminded by a regime that feels Malawi is a laboratory where political and economic governance can be researched.
That is why the poor will always be there. They will even increase in number. They will be here with us, always there to remind the happy octogenarians that there is someone in the village who can’t afford a packet of salt and hasn’t been able to buy the subsidised fertilizer because it was never there.
We will only reduce poverty if the majority of us decide to side with the poor. After all, that is the class where most of us belong; therefore, we should fight a good war for ourselves and posterity, for our parents and our friends. We should fight for those who can’t rush to the streets because there is none in their location; to those that can’t boo the president because he never visits them.
The pangs of poverty are becoming irresistible. The poor man is dying because there are no drugs at the nearest public hospital and he can’t afford to buy them at the nearest pharmacy. Yet, those top government officials will not hesitate to fly their sons and daughters to South Africa the moment their throats itch.
The poor will always be among us if we let things take the course they have taken. The poor will not see any light at the end of the tunnel if we don’t take to task this insecure and pessimistic regime. The poor will continue being trumped upon by the oldest men we keep where they don’t belong if we don’t care to take a leading role in realigning the way things are moving.
Thursday, December 29, 2011
Monday, December 26, 2011
The Triumph Of Art: Our Victory
A message to the artist – the poet, the painter, the essayist, the musician – the artist
The best explanation of why we are supposed to die is because art lives. Art is the immortal component of our affairs which draws realities into a realm of perfectness. Art cannot be repressed; it cannot be oppressed. Art cannot be silenced, because in its silence, it can shout the loudest. Art cannot be arrested; art cannot be censored, because that which is censored has seen the light of the day. Therefore, censoring art is a futile attempt because art flows from the inner conviction of our desire to paint something new in our progress.
Art will stand the test of time. Art will be there even after we are all gone. Art will still stand after all our pillars of resilience have fallen apart, giving in to economic, political and social inequities. Art will be the triumphant giant standing in a desert of intense heat and loneliness. It will be the last song resounding in the retentive memories of posterity. It will not be defeated by the bark of a rabid dog; neither will it bow down to the roar of a hungry lion.
It will be the lonely tree in a forest that has been cleared. It will be the swift river flowing relentlessly in the flaming sun. Art will be the final point of future transitions. It will be there today and in the afterlife. Art will be the final witness of our experiences. It will refuse to be bribed or manipulated; it will not be altered or cancelled. It will be the ultimate carrier of truth to Doomsday.
Kings angry for blood will not benefit from art; they will be rebuked. Art, like that of Frank Chipasula, in Manifesto on Ars Poetica, will spray these tyrannical leaders with terrible verbs of terror. Art will triumph even after its producer is no more. It will be there because it has always been there. Art will sing, art will write, art will paint, art will even be silent.
We need to be always mindful of the fact that we are living in an increasingly resistant and retrogressive society. It is a society where our final redress seems to be found in the courts of law. Yet, this is a society where the instant redress should be emitted from art. Art will not set a day when it has to come out, for it has always been there in our minds. It is already written on our hearts like radiant words curved on a marble.
The artist will always be targeted by those who perceive him to pose some threat. He may be chastised, repressed and even mauled to his death. But his victory is in his art, and that should be the greatest victory of out time: the ability to live beyond your time; the prospect of leaving behind hope for posterity. That is the essence of art. That is why, like sayeth the Holy Bible, our care should not be to have lived long as to have lived enough; artists, like all good men, must die, but the sting of death will end on the mound beneath which their bodies lie. Art will rise and triumph beyond the pain and miseries of our death.
We must produce art. We must not be in constant awe of those that will need to suppress it, for they will never succeed. Just like one of the greatest artists Alexander Pope said, “so vast is art, so narrow human wit,” we should penetrate into the core ideals of art, and explore it better than we have ever done. So vast will be our art, and so narrow will be the discernment of oppressors. That is where our victory will lie.
We are already in the midst of terrible inequities. As artists we are defending our fold from different fronts. That is where the challenge lies. The triumph of art will be our victory, that is why art should never cease to flow from our loins. Poet and critic Phillip Sidney said that a true knight if fuller of bravery in the middle, than in the beginning of danger. We must therefore rise and write more, paint more, sing more, speak more and act more. The negative picture of our surrounding should be the greatest inspiration. From it, a historic inflow of art can be created. Either, we will have to find a way, or we have to create one.
Like Henry Ward Beecher said, every artist – a painter, a poet, a singer – dips his brush in his own soul, and paints his own nature into his pictures. That is where art wins; that is where art informs us that it never comes from a vacuum. It descends from the experiences of life, the trauma of rejection, the pain of oppression; even the hope for posterity.
The artist shouldn’t be troubled with the predictable perfections of life. He has the artistic license to present the way he wants. Morality should be his guiding principle. It should resurrect the hopefulness that will emanate from our desire to control our progress. Great art will live today, tomorrow, even in the afterlife. That is why the aim of every artist should be to arrest motion, which is life, by artificial means and hold it fixed so that a hundred years later, when a stranger looks at it, it moves again since it is life. I share this concept by William Faulkner.
Let art illuminate the darkest sides of our society. Let it expose the inequities committed in dark rooms planted on mountains and in forests. Its duty to send a searching light into the darkness of men’s hearts should be nurtured. Let the artist’s world remain limitless. It should be from within and without that the artist should explore life. Let him recreate. After all, like Henry Miller once observed, the artist is the opposite of the politically-minded individual, the opposite of the reformer, the opposite of the idealist. The artist does not tinker with the universe; he recreates it out of his own experience and understanding of life.
As an artist – as a poet; as a writer – you will conceive ideas that the teacher will love or hate; things that the politician will like or loathe; things that the doctor will condemn or recommend; things for which the policeman will want to arrest you or applaud you; things that the lawyer will invalidate or substantiate; things that your father will reject or respect. Don’t despair; you are an artist and give every man his proper dosage even if he will despise it. Its significance will be recognized later in this life journey.
Don’t worry of starting your artistic work because you are not sure if you will be able to finish it. No artist in the world ever finishes his work; we will all take it forward with a terrible speed, but life will force us to abandon it. We should be most interested to rediscover the universe; recreate the society; realign the political situation. Struggle not to complicate art. The farmer should discern it; the driver should uncover it; the politician should interpret it. Simplicity is the greatest adornment of art.
Our hearts should not grow weaker. Indeed we are burdened with the imposed inequities of our friends; those friends whom we cannot ignore; friends who are forcing us to love what we hate for to bring our society back to our roots, we have to show love by producing art that will rebuke them. As artists, we have unimaginable loads on our heads. And, yet, that is what should build our character because it is the nature of the strong heart that, like the palm tree it has to grow upwards when it is most burdened.
Well, this message is drawn from nature, the greatest form of art. Nature abhors a vacuum; nature desires that there should be continuity in it, that it draws together all forms of art. Just like Alexander Pope observed, nature itself is but art methodised. Art should retain its original position in government business. It should not conform to the laid down principles of politicians. It must not be in perfect terror of the loudest voices. Let art be like the soldier’s compass; a pilgrim’s staff. Art should be the basis of everything. Thus, we should produce art in abundance, for art summarises all life’s struggles.
Art has never slept, it only rests. Art will never be deleted, it may only be hidden. Art is the ultimate victory of our time, so should the artist be. Our deepest desire should be to produce more and more art. Let’s write poetry, let’s paint images, let’s sing songs, let’s even think aloud. And at the end, art will triumph. Art will reshape our society. Art will be the ultimate winner. And that will be our victory; the triumph of art.
The best explanation of why we are supposed to die is because art lives. Art is the immortal component of our affairs which draws realities into a realm of perfectness. Art cannot be repressed; it cannot be oppressed. Art cannot be silenced, because in its silence, it can shout the loudest. Art cannot be arrested; art cannot be censored, because that which is censored has seen the light of the day. Therefore, censoring art is a futile attempt because art flows from the inner conviction of our desire to paint something new in our progress.
Art will stand the test of time. Art will be there even after we are all gone. Art will still stand after all our pillars of resilience have fallen apart, giving in to economic, political and social inequities. Art will be the triumphant giant standing in a desert of intense heat and loneliness. It will be the last song resounding in the retentive memories of posterity. It will not be defeated by the bark of a rabid dog; neither will it bow down to the roar of a hungry lion.
It will be the lonely tree in a forest that has been cleared. It will be the swift river flowing relentlessly in the flaming sun. Art will be the final point of future transitions. It will be there today and in the afterlife. Art will be the final witness of our experiences. It will refuse to be bribed or manipulated; it will not be altered or cancelled. It will be the ultimate carrier of truth to Doomsday.
Kings angry for blood will not benefit from art; they will be rebuked. Art, like that of Frank Chipasula, in Manifesto on Ars Poetica, will spray these tyrannical leaders with terrible verbs of terror. Art will triumph even after its producer is no more. It will be there because it has always been there. Art will sing, art will write, art will paint, art will even be silent.
We need to be always mindful of the fact that we are living in an increasingly resistant and retrogressive society. It is a society where our final redress seems to be found in the courts of law. Yet, this is a society where the instant redress should be emitted from art. Art will not set a day when it has to come out, for it has always been there in our minds. It is already written on our hearts like radiant words curved on a marble.
The artist will always be targeted by those who perceive him to pose some threat. He may be chastised, repressed and even mauled to his death. But his victory is in his art, and that should be the greatest victory of out time: the ability to live beyond your time; the prospect of leaving behind hope for posterity. That is the essence of art. That is why, like sayeth the Holy Bible, our care should not be to have lived long as to have lived enough; artists, like all good men, must die, but the sting of death will end on the mound beneath which their bodies lie. Art will rise and triumph beyond the pain and miseries of our death.
We must produce art. We must not be in constant awe of those that will need to suppress it, for they will never succeed. Just like one of the greatest artists Alexander Pope said, “so vast is art, so narrow human wit,” we should penetrate into the core ideals of art, and explore it better than we have ever done. So vast will be our art, and so narrow will be the discernment of oppressors. That is where our victory will lie.
We are already in the midst of terrible inequities. As artists we are defending our fold from different fronts. That is where the challenge lies. The triumph of art will be our victory, that is why art should never cease to flow from our loins. Poet and critic Phillip Sidney said that a true knight if fuller of bravery in the middle, than in the beginning of danger. We must therefore rise and write more, paint more, sing more, speak more and act more. The negative picture of our surrounding should be the greatest inspiration. From it, a historic inflow of art can be created. Either, we will have to find a way, or we have to create one.
Like Henry Ward Beecher said, every artist – a painter, a poet, a singer – dips his brush in his own soul, and paints his own nature into his pictures. That is where art wins; that is where art informs us that it never comes from a vacuum. It descends from the experiences of life, the trauma of rejection, the pain of oppression; even the hope for posterity.
The artist shouldn’t be troubled with the predictable perfections of life. He has the artistic license to present the way he wants. Morality should be his guiding principle. It should resurrect the hopefulness that will emanate from our desire to control our progress. Great art will live today, tomorrow, even in the afterlife. That is why the aim of every artist should be to arrest motion, which is life, by artificial means and hold it fixed so that a hundred years later, when a stranger looks at it, it moves again since it is life. I share this concept by William Faulkner.
Let art illuminate the darkest sides of our society. Let it expose the inequities committed in dark rooms planted on mountains and in forests. Its duty to send a searching light into the darkness of men’s hearts should be nurtured. Let the artist’s world remain limitless. It should be from within and without that the artist should explore life. Let him recreate. After all, like Henry Miller once observed, the artist is the opposite of the politically-minded individual, the opposite of the reformer, the opposite of the idealist. The artist does not tinker with the universe; he recreates it out of his own experience and understanding of life.
As an artist – as a poet; as a writer – you will conceive ideas that the teacher will love or hate; things that the politician will like or loathe; things that the doctor will condemn or recommend; things for which the policeman will want to arrest you or applaud you; things that the lawyer will invalidate or substantiate; things that your father will reject or respect. Don’t despair; you are an artist and give every man his proper dosage even if he will despise it. Its significance will be recognized later in this life journey.
Don’t worry of starting your artistic work because you are not sure if you will be able to finish it. No artist in the world ever finishes his work; we will all take it forward with a terrible speed, but life will force us to abandon it. We should be most interested to rediscover the universe; recreate the society; realign the political situation. Struggle not to complicate art. The farmer should discern it; the driver should uncover it; the politician should interpret it. Simplicity is the greatest adornment of art.
Our hearts should not grow weaker. Indeed we are burdened with the imposed inequities of our friends; those friends whom we cannot ignore; friends who are forcing us to love what we hate for to bring our society back to our roots, we have to show love by producing art that will rebuke them. As artists, we have unimaginable loads on our heads. And, yet, that is what should build our character because it is the nature of the strong heart that, like the palm tree it has to grow upwards when it is most burdened.
Well, this message is drawn from nature, the greatest form of art. Nature abhors a vacuum; nature desires that there should be continuity in it, that it draws together all forms of art. Just like Alexander Pope observed, nature itself is but art methodised. Art should retain its original position in government business. It should not conform to the laid down principles of politicians. It must not be in perfect terror of the loudest voices. Let art be like the soldier’s compass; a pilgrim’s staff. Art should be the basis of everything. Thus, we should produce art in abundance, for art summarises all life’s struggles.
Art has never slept, it only rests. Art will never be deleted, it may only be hidden. Art is the ultimate victory of our time, so should the artist be. Our deepest desire should be to produce more and more art. Let’s write poetry, let’s paint images, let’s sing songs, let’s even think aloud. And at the end, art will triumph. Art will reshape our society. Art will be the ultimate winner. And that will be our victory; the triumph of art.
The Urge Of A Desperate Heart
Conventional predictions of life sometimes tend to misfire, but that is the more reason why life is often described to be unpredictable. But, there are those things that happen in our lives which are perfectly given to tenets of predictability.
Desperate men can do desperate things. That is a saying which may be mostly contested by those men who haven’t been desperate enough to finally resort to desperate options. But, for me, there was this time in my life when I was so desperate that the final option was to undertake a desperate attempt. It happened in July 2004.
Perhaps, there should be a better explanation why luck chose to favour me when, in all truth and honestly, I was on the wrong side. But, as they say, fortune sometimes happens to serve those who rarely deserve it. And in our lives, nature refuses to conform to foreseeable progresses.
I was one of about ten students who had been dismissed from Palm Private Secondary School in Chitipa. Our crime was that we had been ring leaders in the students’ protests which culminated in the vandalism of school property and subsequent closure of the school.
Well, today may not be the right time for me to protest my innocence. It is the events that followed my life in the near future that seem to be perfectly set to occupy a good space in my autobiography. It might have happened in the blinking of some divine eye, but it was much – it was unbelievable and enough.
It was the fear of facing my father’s wrath after being dismissed from school that instantly hatched a desperate idea in me. I wasn’t going home; my parents and siblings would not take my dismissal lightly. I could imagine how they would all spare some time to ‘lecture’ me on the price of pride and peer pressure. But as I was to learn later, my fears had just been blown out of proportion.
Nevertheless, they had driven me to making a decision of boarding a car from Chitipa Boma to Karonga, passing by my home which was only 25 kilometres from my departure point and some 80 kilometres from my destination. I was in terrible desperation and all I wanted was to stay away from my parents for some time.
My initial plans were that after reaching Karonga, I would do some peace-works and earn some money that would take me to Chikhwawa, where my brother stayed. I had departed with K400 in my pocket, and by then it would cost K300 for transport for one to travel from Chitipa to Karonga. This meant that after arriving at Karonga, I was remaining with K100 in my pocket.
The level of my desperation exacerbated. It was now coupled with hunger, exhaustion and fear. But, I told myself that the next decision that I would make would define me: was I man enough?
The problem that I found at Karonga Boma was that there were many people that I knew there who also knew me, so I was afraid to face numerous questions from them about why I was there instead of being in school. Thus, I thought of boarding a bus to Chilumba Jetty. It meant that I was left without any money now. The sun was setting and my stomach kept rumbling.
At Chilumba Trading Centre I met a man whose job was to wash tankers which used to park at a Filling Station there. He agreed to host me for some time while I looked for a ‘job’. I stayed with him for three days until I decided that I was becoming a burden on him. I had searched for piece-works but to no avail.
Another desperate idea struck my mind. I thought of organisations or institutions that would come to my rescue but found nothing. That is when I decided to go to police. It was a decision made out of confusion and humility. After all, what would you expect from the heart of a desperate man?
I took my bag and arrived at the reception of Chilumba Police Post where I reported that I was on my way to Chikhwawa and my transport money had been stolen in the bus that I had boarded at Karonga Boma. The police officer I found at the reception looked askance at my statement and asked to look in my bag, saying I might have put my money there.
It was when he took my exercise books out of the bag that my stomach began to boil.
“You are a student at Palm [Private Secondary School] and you are going to see your brother in Chikhwawa when school is still in progress, what is wrong?” he asked, looking straight in my eyes.
I didn’t have an immediate answer. That led him to the next question: “Aren’t you one of those that were vandalising school property and you are running away?” The story about the vandalism and closure of the school had already been carried in the mainstream media.
Nervousness got complete hold of me, but things miraculously worked in my favour. A senior police officer arrived at the scene and asked his colleague what I was doing there. After being told that I claimed to have my transport money stolen on my way to Chikhwawa, he immediately made a verdict.
“Chikhwawa is further than Chitipa; so the best way is for you to return home and start your journey all over again,” he said with finality.
By then, I was ready to face the wrath of my parents. What I had gone through was terrible enough to erase my fear.
The same afternoon, I boarded a police car that took me to Karonga Police Station where I was ‘dumped’ in the hands of the Victim Support Unit where I was cared for very well.
The following morning I was given a letter which I was supposed to present at Bwiba Roadblock so that the officers there would find any means of transport for me. A police officer escorted me but he found a car that would take me home even before we reached the roadblock. Even though I had lied to the police on how I had found myself at Chilumba, they did a commendable job to ensure a prodigal son found his way back home.
At home, my parents and siblings received me with smiling faces, and it was only a month later when my dad told me that a good reputation is better than expensive perfume and that pride goes before a fall. These were the sayings which I had printed myself on a piece of cloth that was hanging in the sitting room of ‘our’ house.
Desperate men can do desperate things. That is a saying which may be mostly contested by those men who haven’t been desperate enough to finally resort to desperate options. But, for me, there was this time in my life when I was so desperate that the final option was to undertake a desperate attempt. It happened in July 2004.
Perhaps, there should be a better explanation why luck chose to favour me when, in all truth and honestly, I was on the wrong side. But, as they say, fortune sometimes happens to serve those who rarely deserve it. And in our lives, nature refuses to conform to foreseeable progresses.
I was one of about ten students who had been dismissed from Palm Private Secondary School in Chitipa. Our crime was that we had been ring leaders in the students’ protests which culminated in the vandalism of school property and subsequent closure of the school.
Well, today may not be the right time for me to protest my innocence. It is the events that followed my life in the near future that seem to be perfectly set to occupy a good space in my autobiography. It might have happened in the blinking of some divine eye, but it was much – it was unbelievable and enough.
It was the fear of facing my father’s wrath after being dismissed from school that instantly hatched a desperate idea in me. I wasn’t going home; my parents and siblings would not take my dismissal lightly. I could imagine how they would all spare some time to ‘lecture’ me on the price of pride and peer pressure. But as I was to learn later, my fears had just been blown out of proportion.
Nevertheless, they had driven me to making a decision of boarding a car from Chitipa Boma to Karonga, passing by my home which was only 25 kilometres from my departure point and some 80 kilometres from my destination. I was in terrible desperation and all I wanted was to stay away from my parents for some time.
My initial plans were that after reaching Karonga, I would do some peace-works and earn some money that would take me to Chikhwawa, where my brother stayed. I had departed with K400 in my pocket, and by then it would cost K300 for transport for one to travel from Chitipa to Karonga. This meant that after arriving at Karonga, I was remaining with K100 in my pocket.
The level of my desperation exacerbated. It was now coupled with hunger, exhaustion and fear. But, I told myself that the next decision that I would make would define me: was I man enough?
The problem that I found at Karonga Boma was that there were many people that I knew there who also knew me, so I was afraid to face numerous questions from them about why I was there instead of being in school. Thus, I thought of boarding a bus to Chilumba Jetty. It meant that I was left without any money now. The sun was setting and my stomach kept rumbling.
At Chilumba Trading Centre I met a man whose job was to wash tankers which used to park at a Filling Station there. He agreed to host me for some time while I looked for a ‘job’. I stayed with him for three days until I decided that I was becoming a burden on him. I had searched for piece-works but to no avail.
Another desperate idea struck my mind. I thought of organisations or institutions that would come to my rescue but found nothing. That is when I decided to go to police. It was a decision made out of confusion and humility. After all, what would you expect from the heart of a desperate man?
I took my bag and arrived at the reception of Chilumba Police Post where I reported that I was on my way to Chikhwawa and my transport money had been stolen in the bus that I had boarded at Karonga Boma. The police officer I found at the reception looked askance at my statement and asked to look in my bag, saying I might have put my money there.
It was when he took my exercise books out of the bag that my stomach began to boil.
“You are a student at Palm [Private Secondary School] and you are going to see your brother in Chikhwawa when school is still in progress, what is wrong?” he asked, looking straight in my eyes.
I didn’t have an immediate answer. That led him to the next question: “Aren’t you one of those that were vandalising school property and you are running away?” The story about the vandalism and closure of the school had already been carried in the mainstream media.
Nervousness got complete hold of me, but things miraculously worked in my favour. A senior police officer arrived at the scene and asked his colleague what I was doing there. After being told that I claimed to have my transport money stolen on my way to Chikhwawa, he immediately made a verdict.
“Chikhwawa is further than Chitipa; so the best way is for you to return home and start your journey all over again,” he said with finality.
By then, I was ready to face the wrath of my parents. What I had gone through was terrible enough to erase my fear.
The same afternoon, I boarded a police car that took me to Karonga Police Station where I was ‘dumped’ in the hands of the Victim Support Unit where I was cared for very well.
The following morning I was given a letter which I was supposed to present at Bwiba Roadblock so that the officers there would find any means of transport for me. A police officer escorted me but he found a car that would take me home even before we reached the roadblock. Even though I had lied to the police on how I had found myself at Chilumba, they did a commendable job to ensure a prodigal son found his way back home.
At home, my parents and siblings received me with smiling faces, and it was only a month later when my dad told me that a good reputation is better than expensive perfume and that pride goes before a fall. These were the sayings which I had printed myself on a piece of cloth that was hanging in the sitting room of ‘our’ house.
Monday, December 12, 2011
Dark Season
So here we are settling
Wondering no more
Accepting the last straw
Anger slowly boiling
To its most passive point
We believe this the joint
Where we can never leave
Others can never believe
But that is how dark it is
A dark season for us
A dark season for you
A brighter season for one
One man who knows not
How we live; how we breathe
We long for light
So we may clear our plight
Our pain, our sorrow
To end today or tomorrow
And one man watches
One man listens with a grin
He ignores all the coaches
Despises their last order
And all we have now
Is a dark season
A hopeless season
A season for our joy
To wither into his ploy
For him to be, us to be not
Wondering no more
Accepting the last straw
Anger slowly boiling
To its most passive point
We believe this the joint
Where we can never leave
Others can never believe
But that is how dark it is
A dark season for us
A dark season for you
A brighter season for one
One man who knows not
How we live; how we breathe
We long for light
So we may clear our plight
Our pain, our sorrow
To end today or tomorrow
And one man watches
One man listens with a grin
He ignores all the coaches
Despises their last order
And all we have now
Is a dark season
A hopeless season
A season for our joy
To wither into his ploy
For him to be, us to be not
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)