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We are his legacy
This is my continent, our complement
We are soil without component
This are our roots, a superstition
And sky blue cinematic religion
I am you and you are me
So we are his only being
We are him, him Africa
The father of black sleep, a flicker
This is my stay, our state
The fruits of our plate
On his table we assemble
Forever stoned kings of our resemble
We are never our have
But our within, a sacred grave
Of a puritan hidden in our language
For scars normed without a bandage.
Copyright ©
Bradley Kutloano Mokgabudi
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