The old women of my village plundered by war -
McMillan’s Wind raging and howling, a new era groaned to it's dawn.
I saw the old men of Mazvihwa thrashed to near-death
by war-drunk youths and the comrades, caretakers of the new dawn.

At first they came to eat, sing, talk and go
Then the eating, the singing and talking
became the soul of the war, and the slogan was the village
could never dodge the frequent visits of eating, singing, talking and going.
We wanted the war to end, the war to bring the new day
win at last our land, the sacred land,
we wanted real village again, wanted to go back, go back where
the rough boot of Rhodes' ire had split our roots; then the comrades sang a new song.

Let us glean and clean the village, they declared;
let us beat to near-death all the witches and wizards-
we have the guns, the slogans, the songs
you have the sadza, the meat, and the joy
which is the soul of support, the spine of liberation.
I saw the freedom fighters maiming my grandfathers and grandmothers
leaving them to crawl to Vulture's Lair; I saw, I saw them
thrashing the spine, crushing the support to total submission.
I saw that early the poison in the bowl of the soup of liberation.