The footprints of the San
blown silent by the winds of change.
in the noise.
The land is fraught.
White against black
Black against white
Black against black
White against white
Colour, culture, chaos.
– brothers, sisters, children –
Men in arms
Men at war
People at war.
The Empire surges forth
The land rebels
Impi chants rush in and over the hills of Natal
and then they, too, fall silent
The Boers trek, north…
…to nowhere, anywhere but under the arm of the tyrant
Founding that which has already been found, naming it –
the Orange Free State,
The Cape was always the Usurper’s (even though it wasn’t),
but the arm is long and the arm is greedy; it wants obedience, land and wealth.
It wants diamonds, and gold.
It wants gold
A greedy, gaping maw.
Land of opportunity
The arm wrestles the treasure into its grasp,
cramming nuggets and gems into the salivating orifice
more and more and more
it’s teeth crack and its throat constricts
Blood in the soil.
Dust, digging, fire in the mines.
The legacy of the land
She is home.
She is heart.
She is broken.
Her soil corrupted,
Her people slain,
Her soul polluted.
Her story is pain,
love, joy and imagination.
– great grandfathers, grandfathers, fathers, sons –
– great grandmothers, grandmothers, mothers, daughters –
(and greater still)
fashioned by the land…
– my story, your story, their story –
a million voices in conflict and in unison.
Listen, and the silence unfurls
And there is strength
She spews Grit
It’s in her DNA
She is resilient and she has made her people so.
Her destiny is freedom.