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Matete Motsoaledi

Awe gust

The wind whirls
And stirs the dust
Leaving the grass with nothing to anchor

It is the august wind
That blows so viciously
After the winter’s chill
Has tormented the frail shrubs

It blows dust in my face
As if to spite me
For I can do nothing to stop it

But somewhere in me
I smile in defiance
Because I know
That the next season is spring

But unlike the august wind
I have no one to spite

[...] Read more

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