The first vowel of pain
pierces the night, O!

We recoil in our nightmares,
hearing a man scream like sheep
under a merciless knife.

The cry coils about the midnight
pitch darkness, out of Chingwe's

Hole and Mikuyu Prison Farm.
It strikes our hearts like a Black

Mamba crested with a deadly moon,
a rainbow of blood draped over
the bowed moon's hidden arrow.

The hills are aflame with dirges,
the valleys sob silently, afraid
of Special Branch ears—

The shock waves spread like
hot butter on this stale land.

The psalms raise the alms in the burnt
incense of dark human flesh
in the dawn of Palm Sunday.

Martyrs' Day: All quiet—the night's
Murder well hushed. All quiet.