Men in Chains
The train stopped
at a country station.
Through sleep curtained eyes
I peered through the frosty window,
and saw six men:
men shorn
of all human honour
like sheep after shearing,
bleating at the blistering wind,
‘Go away! Cold wind! Go away!
Can’t you see we are naked?’
They hobbled into the train
on bare feet,
wrists handcuffed,
ankles manacled
with steel rings like cattle at the abattoirs
shying away from the trapdoor.
One man with a head
shaven clean as a potato
whispered to the rising sun,
a red eye wiped by a tattered
handkerchief of clouds,
‘Oh! Dear Sun!
Won’t you warm my heart
with hope?’
The train went on its way to nowhere.
Oswald Mbuyiseni Mtshali
Oswald Mbuyiseni Mtshali was born on 17 January 1940 in Kwabhanya, he is a South African whose works have been commended within and outside Africa. He writes both in Zulu and English languages.
The train stopped
at a country station.
Through sleep curtained eyes
I peered through the frosty window,
and saw six men:
men shorn
of all human honour
like sheep after shearing,
bleating at the blistering wind,
‘Go away! Cold wind! Go away!
Can’t you see we are naked?’
They hobbled into the train
on bare feet,
wrists handcuffed,
ankles manacled
with steel rings like cattle at the abattoirs
shying away from the trapdoor.
One man with a head
shaven clean as a potato
whispered to the rising sun,
a red eye wiped by a tattered
handkerchief of clouds,
‘Oh! Dear Sun!
Won’t you warm my heart
with hope?’
The train went on its way to nowhere.
Oswald Mbuyiseni Mtshali
Oswald Mbuyiseni Mtshali was born on 17 January 1940 in Kwabhanya, he is a South African whose works have been commended within and outside Africa. He writes both in Zulu and English languages.
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