It’s a big question in my mind how much liquid earth can take? 
Like if I were to empty litres upon the barren ground of caked
Desert, when does it overflow to stop my ambition of a lake? 

Lakes are fun to be on: the waterjet splashes speed soaring, 
The arms windmill to move you splashing, speeding, boring
Through the water, laughing, while fishes stare at nothing

Nothing is what the media said was poured on the ground 
But I saw the litres ambition to be more than gunpowder sound, 
And watering cans spilled their contents on watering can mounds

And in the mound  it’s about 5 litres a-piece, slowly ebbing gross.
Blood has a thing for making my stomach curl, and loss
Has a thing for making my eyes unfurl. Both are plain gross. 

Gross lies in the media proliferating gross lies to the public, 
While watering cans….Did I just call humans farming objects? 
Like we’re growing food for some starving child in our republic? 

My republic? No a human with holes watering the ground won’t 
Grow any food. Won’t heal any wounds. Won’t go out hunt, 
Or caress a little kid’s cheek. But guns, guns, they’re totally blunt, 

About causing blunt trauma to a nation seeking growth overall. 
You can’t silence these cats once you set the nips on your garden wall
And they hang around, they multiply and make humans lamentation walls. 

The wall of ego brings watering cans. The porous soil is tired. 
Is the ambition to make a lake? Is the ambition for war to retire? 
We’ll maybe never know, and till then deserts, blood, heaps, fire.

(c) nyonglema