Oppression of a different kind, this fine line that connects every being to another, thinning to a blur, in humane versus humane, empathy, compassion, the centre of it all, 'love'� Would a war that should have been painted a different picture, with shades of scarlet? Resentment mounts, the scales tilts, only not to a balance, an imbalance, of necessities changed to privileges. Will all ever come to a halt, where the fight is for humanity, where the struggle is for instead a single loaf, a basket of bread that feeds multitudes?

An epidemic of greater proportions, where not only our health is jeopardised, the energy of livelihood, the spirit of mankind. And our eyes placed upon Table Mountain, perhaps up high above the ground looking up to whom jumps the highest, where is our saviour coming from?

Long walk to freedom, reiterates, versions closely twined to status, the walk has just begun, so hold the celebrations, this pandemic is of unfathomable lethality. Men have fallen, children dragging through velds dependants, women speak, only because the hand that feeds them is their own and men remain, fallen.

The messiah is not coming, there shall be no crucifix, perhaps there should have been. The streams of illusion are drying up; it is no longer a rosy picture and they that lead smell not of peaches and creams but of fault, a heavy stench of guilt. Of the war that should have been, can no longer be, far gone to the deep end in the jaws of a crocodile that is death, there is not brighter tomorrow, the sun will shine and only a handful will see this sun.

Oh! Wow is all of us, trapped in quicksand, being swallowed whole. It's a torture; it's a torment, one we beg to die through not living to see another day'�

The virus infected politics, the disease called government

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