It’s the fragrance, mother; the intoxicating crispy fragrance of colored newly mint coinage. Sometimes the shimmering glitter of gold or silver. It matters not mother what figures are imprinted on, just the fragrance!
The fragrance that drives me to plunder my core, to pillage my country to nothing, squandering it to desolation.
The fragrance that possesses me to bare my nakedness to them, to vend my soul’s worth, to trade my country’s worth!
The fragrance that devours me and sparks hunger pangs, coercing me to crave and covet theirs staining my hands with blood !
It’s the fragrance mother; the musky musty odor of old and used notes, sometimes the dull hue of coinage that quenches my thirst and ardor!
It matters not mother what figures are imprinted on Just the fragrance mother! Just the fragrance.
Regina Asinde This poem emerged second in the 2010 BN Poetry Award
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