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by Staff Writer
From the loneliness of this time
From yesterday, today, tomorrow
From this hour, this minute, this second
From what might have been
From gazing at dreams rotting in the sun
From the need of closure from our illegal ourselves
From time served being refugees but still unwanted
From an echo of ourselves that no longer exist.
This poem is the soft call of one lonely raven
That has lost her loved birth-ones
It is the voice of reason in times of pestilence
It is the voice of the spirit that left luggage
And bundles of bones in Limpopo River
It is the voice of flesh and blood that sustains
Fish and crocodiles in Limpopo
Year in, year out
It is the voice of the badger swallowing in grief
It is the voice of the raccoon chocking in blame.
It maybe is too late for us
To start our own definition
This is not the life we dreamt of
But it is the life we have
For life at this place is called
Everyone’s life is a burden
And the raven has left us to our disastrous methods
No one ever listens to us
So give me all your fears
Let me hold all your sorrows in my heart
This poem is yours
To harvest that which has been lost
To smell the heat still rising in our birth place
We are the way to the way it used to be
Foreigners in a new place, still waiting
Waiting for light, space and time
I know you are a whisper, a word, a song
Thrumming in the heartbeat of your own heart
Laughter shouting red blossoms into the wind
Greeting the sun, the moon, the stars
Resounding like ram’s horns in the synagogues of our souls
Melodies bridging over the abyss of this suffering
Let’s dream together like two wings of the same bird
Being carried away on the shoulder of these notes
Here is my voice that cannot sing to you. |
