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When in-laws clash
My blade is sharper, so they claim.
And his hoe is blunt.
Each voice raised is struggling to rise above the noise,
eyeing for supremacy,
living to convince,
competing for dominance,
quarreling to belittle, demean, and degrade.
I found that armchair broken and fixed it.
The chicken you ate when you paid your dowry was mine.
So it goes.
But both are travelers.
Come harvest time, behind those bushes they will disappear.
No inheritance, pension, or gratuity—except what they sent forth.
Had we not wasted our time,
we would have been of paradise.
But we departed with enmity.
We are now roasted in grief.
Copyright ©
Wilson Lemani
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