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Poem

When 
all 
of 
them 
were 
holding 
guns. 
We 
held 
knobkieries 
and 
stabbed 
their 
sons. 
We 
sang 
songs 
of 
war, 
they 
shot 
bullets, 
we 
slew 
their 
nuns. 
They 
killed 
our 
Azania 
and 
told 
us 
to 
belly 
dance. 
We 
rebelled 
against 
race, 
for 
that 
was 
of 
potent 
relevance. 
They 
wore 
the 
'Madiba' 
attire 
and 
we 
stabbed 
him 
through 
their 
skin. 
Though 
they 
shot 
bullets 
as 
we 
stabbed 
the 
whites, 
no 
race 
was 
willing 
to 
win. 
Eugene 
was 
not 
willing 
to 
give 
up 
his 
swollen 
arms. 
The 
new 
South 
Africa 
was 
birthed 
by 
bloody 
streets, 
massacres 
of 
blacks, 
and 
pimpernel 
scums. 
We 
reunited 
black 
through 
song, 
by 
the 
tight 
skin 
of 
African 
drums. 
The 
streets 
are 
now 
ablaze 
like 
Moses' 
bush, 
sinking 
in 
a 
sea 
of 
civil 
war. 
Our 
lives 
of 
slavery 
were 
tormented 
more, 
than 
the 
soul 
of 
a 
rapist 
prisoner 
behind 
bars. 
You 
torched 
our 
flesh 
in 
burning 
tire 
like 
witches, 
and 
then 
tried 
to 
heal 
our 
scars. 
Our 
lives 
are 
now 
turned 
fable, 
like 
ancient 
relics 
untold. 
Because 
like 
actors 
everyday 
we 
watch 
the 
drama 
of 
our 
ancient 
miseries 
unfold.

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