SAMUEL LUCAS KAFUGILI
Mt Giluwe, oh Giluwe
Kiluwe in mother lingua franca,
from whose mighty peaks,
the freezing mists disgorge
And snowflakes that puff out,
and ice, the spray-gunned ice,
Sending away the glacial drops
that slide into the mist
The Kiluwe ground frost,
Home of cold breezes
that wilts unprotected plants,
Then enjoins the icy steppe
The vapour streams and smears,
Turns into ice that blasts the air,
and infiltrates the atmosphere,
turning all into a chilled haze
The fog that then shelters the cold,
Causing nature to be an ice-box,
Chilling all that it comes to meet
as it freezes and fogs its way
Sometimes comes the hailstorm,
Icy tactics from above,
But always the shreds of mist
And the fogs lingering gently
Ah, mighty steaming Kiluwe,
Your peak standing in grandeur
Mastering the winds and ice,
And sovereign over all we see