The once brightly-coloured
flag hangs glumly from the mast post,
battered and torn by the winds of discontent.
The colours
have faded until no one remembers what they mean.
The Green
that stood for agricultural and rural areas is unrecognisable;
resembling a battle for land by
one powerful black man against a poor one
The Yellow
of mineral wealth is dirtied by the scuffles of diamond evictions and greed.
Chiyadzwa skies echo the cries
of the dispossessed and the dead.
The flow of Red
blood did not stop after the second Chimurenga,
it flows secretly in rivers and
caves where disappeared people’s bodies are hidden.
The Black of
heritage and ethnicity has faded into different shades,
it is brother against brother to
the death.
The White
Triangle of peace mocks me,
its size symbolic of how little
it matters now.
The red star
of communism is hardly visible but this is just as well,
For
it is rather ironic in this now capitalist state.
I watch the
Zimbabwe Bird flutter at the pinnacle,
an eagle that is eating its own
eggs until the future is gone.
I wipe down
the tears in my eyes as the flag is battered by another storm:
Rain drips
down from it like the tears of a nation completely sodden with grief and
despair.
