A wasteland mourns in silence,
her quiet grieving interrupted only
by the busyness of chirping birds
and the continuous sound of distant traffic.
A sense of loss still haunts her vacant grounds;
she longs for the community
and the vibrancy of its life
she had sustained for so long
A brutal scourging of her landscape has left her violated,
her neighborhoods reduced to dust and rubble
and her land has become a barren waste.
Now weeds, shrubs and bushes flourish,
a blatant exploitation of her vulnerability,
yet their insatiable conquest
for gain and new territory
cannot conceal the evidence of her once famous legacy
The remnants of paving, pot-holed streets and lanes remain
barely visible, their identities long ago discarded,
though lamentably reminiscent
in the familiar names of the far flung township ghettos
Streets once boasted market stalls
displayed with fruit and veg,
freshly caught fish and fragrant flowers
and traders who beckoned all to spend,
transacting more than just the bargained deal
Spontaneous talk and humorous sharing
of the latest local news exploding into laughter
echoes off cracked walls with peeling paint,
and children’s voices, at their play in dimly sunlit alleyways.
Then all became this silence,
a quiet grieving interrupted only by the busyness of chirping birds
and the continuous sound of distant traffic.
Still amidst a frenzied invasion of weeds, shrubs and bushes,
the pain and precious memories linger,
confined to photographs and a generation now passing on;
the snapshots of moments in time
old and fading in worn out albums with its pages torn.