The Weeping of the Penny Whistle

by Prof. Peter Horn

The penny whistle begins to weep
in my dreams: when was it I heard it
for the first time, and now I cannot silence it.

It weeps, monotonously, like the water
running over the stones in Jonkershoek Valley.

It weeps like the wind: it weeps in the distance.
I weeps for all whistlers who have died
in the long years of hunger and birdshot.

It weeps in the sand that has been drenched
with the blood of passers-by
when the bombs exploded
in bars and churches.

It weeps in the trees, it weeps with the birds,
it weeps in my dreams climbing the scales
of sorrow and madness.

21-May-2006

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Comments on this Poem

Interesting Poem

Zuzumuzi
25-Feb-2015 17:37 PM