The Wheels on the Bus

The wheels on the bus
go round and round.
My head in the trees
my heels on the ground.
I asked the hard questions
and look what I found:
what hasn't been said
weighs the heaviest pound.
Silence screeches
like rusting brakes
and stops me abruptly
with the sound it makes,
but if provocation
is what it takes...
spare me a spear
and sharpen the stakes!
Ask me your questions.
Tell me your lies
and where to watch the sun
and the bread rise.
Lead me to your water.
Let me greet your skies,
sing with the children
and the mother who cries.
There is no face
on the moon here.
There is no place
where the girl feels secure.
There is no white money
for the black man in fear.
There is no bus coming
but on we steer.
There is no bus, sweetie,
coming through in the clutch.
There is no car, daughter,
sit down and hush.
There is no water,
only this dust.
There is no bus coming
for the son in the bush.

--poem by Ang la Buxton