I Want To Blow My Vuvuzuela

The world,

When in thick fog and sagging mist,

With swollen eyes weeps,

The guitar string broken,

The drum torn,

The trumpet mangled,

And too sick the piano can't sing,

My eyes see only my sweet vuvuzuela,

My soul surging with fondness ,

The desire brewing like a storm,

My hands becoming itchy,

And my lungs swelling with pride,

Ready to blow my vuvuzuela to eternity.

With music painfully learnt,

I want to blow my golden vuvuzuela,

That in the warmth of  the shy sun,

That is hiding behing the peeping hills,

I can blow her softly ,

To let her mellow voice,

Filled with an enchanting goodness,

Waft through the wobbly fingers of the tired time,

And drift and wind around

The trees,pregnant souls,

And let her sensuous touch,

Echo with its reverberations,

In the fog ridden valley,

Where the sailor with Columbus syndrome,

Has lost direction,the compass

Staring blankly at him

With broken arms,hands and fingers.

Charl Chotto