The Bateleur's Beak

Blinded eyes are a silken
white. We look away
cold with closing hands,
apathetic to the fray.

Underneath the sands
no fueling river runs,
despite the raging onslaught
no saviour ever comes.

Black and silence stained,
a red and curving blade,
the Bateleur's beak is over
all and scorning any aid.

The veins beneath the surface
are empty and collapsed.
Their poison cargo carried
Harare's pulse has lapsed.