Men conspired to kill you
and once Domoina ripped the tracks
from your back
the railway died.

Gone are the whistles and steam,
the rhythmic rock of clickety-clack,
the slow pull up the steep mountain,
the anticipated arrival.

Now we listen with a ravenous hunger
to tales of the omkhulu
as they reminisce on the time of the train,
pipe smoke circling their heads
like so many puffs from the engine.

We close our eyes and imagine yesterday,
when the world was innocent
and that train linked our village to the world.



This is my first piece written for dVerse.
Thank you, Whimsygizmo, for asking us to “come play!”