Where the Wetlands Weep 

Beneath the sky’s forgotten tears, 

Where reeds and whispers bend to years, 

The wetlands lie—a cradle wide,

 Of breath and root and moonlit tide. 

Not wasteland, no, but sacred womb, 

Where life awakens from the gloom. 

A place where lilies gently rise, 

And herons dance beneath the skies, 

Where frogs in chorus sing at night, 

And fireflies paint the dark with light. 

Papyrus sways like ancient priests, 

In green cathedrals where none feasts. 

This is the breath the earth exhales, 

The sponge that swallows roaring gales. 

It cradles floods in soft embrace, 

And gifts the land a fertile grace. 

It filters filth from poisoned streams, 

And guards the roots of people’s dreams. 

But now the reeds begin to choke,

The sky hangs low in bitter smoke. 

Bulldozers crawl like famished beasts, 

Devouring life to build their feasts. 

Concrete creeps where birds once flew, 

And diesel drowns the morning dew. 

They say, “It’s empty, just a marsh,” 

They drain it dry, both swift and harsh. 

For rice and bricks, for sand and roads, 

They rob the swamp, ignore its codes.

Yet while they build their dreams so high, 

The earth below begins to cry. 

The fish are gone, the frogs are mute, 

The soil grows sour, the harvests fruit,

 But only dust and grief and thirst— 

As if the land itself is cursed. 

The water no more pure or kind, 

Its touch now stings, its trail maligned. 

But wait— 

A child stands near the edge, 

By muddy bank and bending sedge.

 She speaks with voice not forged in fear, 

But hope that all the world must hear:

“O you who see but do not see, 

The swamp is not your enemy. 

She is our mother dressed in green, 

A shrine of balance, calm, unseen. 

She feeds our birds, she cools our heat, 

She stores the rain beneath our feet. 

She heals the wounds our hands create— 

But only if we stop too late.” 

Let this not be a mourning song, 

Of what was right but turned to wrong. 

Let this be fire, a rising tide, 

Of hearts awakened from inside. 

Let drums be beat in every land, 

Let children plant with loving hand. 

Let elders speak of tales once known, 

Of how the wetlands claimed their own. 

Of how they’d fish with simple spears, 

And gather herbs to cure their fears. 

Of how when floods would haunt the hill, 

The swamp stood strong and drinking still. 

Let schools arise near every marsh,

To teach the value, rich and harsh. 

Let science walk with sacred lore, 

And policy with culture’s core. 

Let laws be inked and land be freed, 

Let leaders follow where we lead. 

Oh guardians of our future days, 

Preserve the wetlands, shift your ways. 

For once they're gone, 

we cannot build What only nature shaped and filled. 

No dam, no well, no man-made stream 

Can replicate the wetland’s dream. 

Plant back the reeds, restore the flow, 

Let mangroves in their silence grow. 

Block out the greed, invite the grace, 

Let butterflies reclaim their place. 

Give frogs their songs, give fish their home, 

Give birds their sky, their space to roam.

And you, who walk with heavy tread, 

Remember where the rivers led. 

To wetlands, wombs where pulses beat, 

Where every footprint finds retreat. 

Your life, though distant, still depends 

On every wetland earth defends. 

Final Cry: 

So rise, O youth, and raise your hand— 

The wetlands call across the land. 

Be voice, be pen, be rooted tree, 

Be guardian of what still can be. 

For when the wetlands cease to weep, 

We bury more than soil deep. 

We lose the song, the breath, the balm, 

The storm's restraint, the season's calm. 

But if we act and act today, 

The wetlands live, the skies may stay. 

Let not the silence seal their fate—

 Let not our action come too late. 

A tribute to Uganda’s wetlands and a call to preserve the soul of the earth.

Source : Muyanja james ,+256757694278,