I had magic fingers.

I wrote hundreds of stories and poems

And even drew pictures to go with them.

I played the piano from sun up to sundown

Without pause and would still play

All through dinner.

I sewed.

I carved.

I knitted.

I sculpted.

I broke.

I mended.

I tore.

I sketched.

I created.

I was six years old

And I had magic fingers.

I wonder where all the magic went.

I want my magic fingers back.


Letter From A Slave Boy…

To his Late Mother

Mother, the crack of their whips is so harsh,

The sound of our wailing is parched.

The ground is rocky and rough

And work is too hard, too tough.

Mother we work even when it’s raining.

Worse, we are not allowed to sing.

We hardly have food to eat

And we can barely rest our tired feet.

Mother the women are raped mercilessly

Whilst the men stare helplessly.

Innocent babies born everyday

Never get to know their fathers anyway.

Mother the nights are ice cold

And you’re not here for me to hold.

I dream of home and you,

I hope you think of me too.

Mother with every dawn

And every tired yawn,

I know we’re getting closer

To meeting each other.

I’ll keep writing you letters

Till that day, Mother.