Goma Bleeds, But Goma Lives (Poetry)

Goma, my love, my wounded land,
Cradled in sorrow, carved by war’s hand.
The rivers run red, the earth sighs deep,
For too many souls now rest in sleep.

The wind hums hymns of shattered cries,
Mothers wail beneath darkened skies.
Fathers, broken, lost in the dust,
Children fading, swallowed by rust.

Tears carve rivers down hollowed cheeks,
Blood paints stories no tongue dares speak.
Sweat drips heavy, forging the ground,
Yet no harvest of peace is found.

The graves stretch wide, unmarked, unnamed,
Hopes extinguished, yet love remains.
For even in death, they whisper near,
Calling the world to see, to hear.

But where is justice? Where is grace?
Must sorrow be our only trace?
Oh Goma, still, your heartbeat drums,
Even as the darkness comes.

For though you bleed, you do not die,
Your spirit rises, defies the sky.
And one day soon, the war will cease,
And Goma will stand in the light of peace 

By Peter 'Maestro!' Mutanda 

That tear away labour (For the mother…)

She bears it all alone, 

the weight of conception’s call. 

Enduring sickness within, 

three-quarters of a year, body uptight. 

 

Again, labour's tearing veil, 

Sojourn ends in deliverance’s wail. 

Then come the sleepless nights, 

A curse, it seems, for our plights. 

 

Bound by maternal love’s deep sense, 

Solemnly pledged, we’re nourished hence. 

Dedicated to our growth, we sway, 

Unyielding commitment, day by day.

 

Mere words fail to convey appreciation, 

Lyrical strains can't echo adoration. 

No monologue, no soliloquy for admiration, 

This poetry falls short of glorification.

 

Poem by Peter Mutanda