Donate Poetry

The artist’s ordeal

Wondering and wondering in the none valued profession

My soul cannot feel my degree.

Meer mockery fills the media.

Hopelessness is at the center of the teaching faculty.

I did not do sciences.

 

The noise to defend the useless is full and irritating

The father has decided;

I cannot make or mend bridges.

I cannot cure covid

He has tried to call upon my guardian angel

And has not seen him reply;

He didn’t teach me to heal humans or construct a road

I cannot move floating islands

He too has accepted

My degree is useless

Deep in my own sea of thoughts

Bitterness is my pillow

I move aimlessly- a defenseless child- an artist

 

Questions are many but the answer is one;

I am a cursed soul- born in Uganda

In Uganda where only bridges and roads matter

Where only ability to move floating islands is commendable

Where only virus and cure developments are valuable

Uganda, where those who can’t do these are bastards

They must lick plates

Theirs is the least

They are the last

They must beg

That is my country.

For God and my country, Uganda.

                                      28th Oct, 2021