Untitled 27/2


Red dust rising.
A lowing herd seen through morning mist
Curved horns piercing the sky.
Musical bells heard from far
In a rhythm like that of the earth itself,
Painting the sky with the sounds and colours of truth
And of life beholden to the farmer’s hands.
My cries and his mingling with that morning air
Speaking life into the day.
When I doubted he gave me hope.
When I fled he called my name.
When I cried he held me close and covered me,
Nkosi yami he covered my nakedness and my shame
While I carried his fears and his pain.
He showed me what it is to be loved
And I taught him the secrets of our ancestors,
Those men and women who tamed the land and made it home
When they were written off and given blame.
Like those pioneers from whom we come
We see the dream and bring it to life.


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