Toast to Putin: A poem 

Who couples with the past? Who lives for the future? 

The conception of posterity wants the womb of human nature 

Yet, the sins of history become destiny’s tragedy 

Yester decades’ crimes are still present crosses for somebody 

We live, we breathe the mists of convention and decorum 

In the palaces of the victors, the servants are struck dumb 

Beleaguered voices have a dinner of peanuts and crumbs 

They taught us what we learnt, and our brains were made numb 

Our problems were not theirs, but their wars were ours 

Imposition overrules vision, there is no logic in the stars 

Justice is a key to a wound toy running to a halt 

That perpetrators still own honour, our wounds are open to salt 

The code of conduct and law is the wellness of their convenience 

Apartheid silently in conniving institutions that only increase the distance 

Propaganda disguised as virtue to weak-knee enlightening brilliance 

If violence changes the order, then it is somebody’s business