Hloni Hanong
Poet · Maseru · Lesotho
A poet who writes through pain.
A writing journey
When my older sibling left home to pursue higher education, it left a deep hole in my heart. I understood better through experience, that goodbye is the saddest word indeed. That was the first emotional roller-coaster that created my first poem. Though sometimes I hit an unexpected writer's block. I still find a way to jott down how I feel.
Published writing
Stop crying, pull up your socks
As much as it happens
I hate the violence in the world.
The unfair justice system that goes on,
Personal connections that get a convict a better punishment or none at all.
The screaming of delighted children
That symbolises the joy of their youth as it is now accompanied by wither and depression as they grow into adults.
I hate it, the dark world that exists.
Giving us an ultimatum of keeping it's secrets or going down with it.
I hate it, the sorrow I see in the eyes of a loved one as she approaches the grave in grave times.
I could see that she is suffering, but the badness of it? I could do nothing about it at all.
Instead, I was told to pull up my socks.
The edges of life
I see pain in her eyes.
When will pain in the world end?
I know I sound funny wanting the pain to end.
I'm admitting it, I've lost some important people due to misunderstandings that will never reach a solution.
Am I meant to be alone?
I do miss them, believe me, I do.
It's just that I dont know who is innocent and who is guilty.
Because truth be told;
The enemy is just looking to destroy lovely people in a jiffy
I feel pity
We all have a bunch of things we are not proud of.
Sethoto se halefa ke ho utloa bohloko kea lumela.
Mahlo a bona tse bohloko, ke Mosotho ea bohloko.
Injustice ke bohobe ba lefatše. Nthuse ke se shebeloe fatše.
Cain killed Abel
O sethoto to try to figure out why ngoaneno ao bolaea.
Under basis of harsh circumstances is only when I can answer obvious questions.
Procrastinating justice
Justice clutches his hands at time.
As the cold flies through the forest
On a winter morning,
Souls are mourning,
As they seem not to understand,
As to why time cannot not go hand in hand with justice.
An old practice
That has befallen the victims, the guilty and those who are spectators.
Why can't justice be served?
It breaks my heart,
To see souls in depression,
To see people living in oppression.
Then they say "innocent until proven guilty"
What kind of society do we have without unity?
The thieves are living scot free
And the victims are always truing to flea,
While spectators are living in peace.
From everyone,
From the dust,
From the Procrastinating justice.
That has become an old practice,
In a cruel which only deceives