When Love Leaves

When the soil of separation
is loamy enough,
and the seed of mistrust
is sowed even singularly,
a sprout shoots up in no time.
It then stems out into the inevitable:
They both branch away from each other,
the greenness of love turns brown.
Then the leaves begin to fall…
That’s...when...love...leaves.

Daniel Kojo Appiah (GHANA)

friends of the blog

I wanted to write you a letter 
my love
a letter to tell 
of this longing 
to see you 
and this fear 
of losing you 
of this thing which deeper than I want, I feel 
a nameless pain which pursues me 
a sorrow wrapped about my life.

I wanted to write you a letter 
my love 
a letter of intimate secrets 
a letter of memories of you 
of you 
your lips as red as the tacula fruit 
your hair black as the dark diloa fish 
your eyes gentle as the macongue
your breast hard as young maboque fruit 
your light walk 
your caresses
better than any that I find here.

I wanted to write you a letter
my love
to bring back our days together in our secret haunts
nights lost in the long grass
to bring back the shadow of your legs
and the moonlight filtering through the endless palms,
to bring back the madness of our passion
and the bitterness of separation.

I wanted to write you a letter 
my love 
which you could not read without crying 
which you could hide from papa Bombo
and conceal from mama Kieza
which you would reread without the coldness of forgetting 
a letter which would make any other 
in all Kilombo worthless. 

I wanted to write you a letter 
my love 
a letter which the passing wind would take 
A letter which the cashew and the coffee trees,
the hyenas and the buffalo
the alligators and the river fish 
could hear 
and if the wind should lose it on the way 
the beast and plants 
pitying our sharp sorrow
from song to song
lament to lament 
breath to caught breath 
would leave you, pure and hot,
the burning 
the sorrowful words of the letter
I wanted to write you.

I wanted to write you a letter 
but, oh my love, I cannot understand 
why it is, why, why, why it is my love 
that you cannot read 
and I – oh the hopelessness- cannot write 

BY ANTONIO JACINTO (ANGOLA)Antonio Jacinto

He,She who is not loved..........

I am He who must be forgotten
sacrificed,sidelined
I am She who must not be seen,
a terrible thing ,a sin
a child born out of wedlock.

I am She who must not be heard
a bad past,
history which must be erased fast.
He who is a mistake,who must remain forever in the shadows.

I am He denied of love,
a gift ,No!, certainly not from the Gods above.
Denied of maternal love ,left to suffer
I am She without a voice.

I am He unworthy of love and happiness,
She left to suffer the pain,
The voiceless, I suffer in silence because
I am HE,She who is not loved.

By. Chris Chakwana  (Zimbabwe)