The Sovereign Tree
From Makhaleng’s stone, from Thames’ steady beat,
A single rhythm stirs, a pulse grows strong—
O Sisters of the Soil and Sisters of the Street,
Your hour is come to dismantle ancient wrong.
We know the weight: the gourd, the grinding stone,
The quiet ledger balanced late alone,
The branded scars empires refuse to own.
Shall we be silent while the market’s hand
Sells childhood short and plunders every shore?
While truth is buried in the poisoned sand
And justice knocks upon a bolted door?
No. Let the kgotla’s wisdom find the air,
Let Parliament’s cold vault with echoes ring—
Two streams now rising in a single dare
To strip the armour from the faltering king.
So blend the strength—the sereto and the sonnet’s fire,
The drummer’s call, the bell from Tower’s height.
Weave from two strengths one unassailable choir
To drag this shivering century to light.
Let every cry for right, an anthem be,
A towering Baobab, a Sovereign Tree.
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