By Thabang Tlaka:
She gazed upon horror and never flinched,
Danced with the darkest of demons, yet still stands.
Her sweetest melodies are trapped in fantasies
Edged deeply in her bosom, yet
Constantly purged by a nebulous search for remedies
Africa, gazes upon her dead as they bury their dead.
She hears the voices, the echoing sounds…
Deep within her, relentlessly screaming: Alas!
“We are the living dead; we are born to die and are dying to live”
She hears the voices of the future deep within her…
The up and coming, the young and dying,
the passionate but dying
There are no more graves to bury the dead.
The silent assassin is ushered in by the shrieking mortality rates
Bold and boisterous the butcher stands defiant
Denying Africa a chance to mother…But!
She knows that the hunger within her shall be satisfied.
For as she painfully however, soothingly rocks back and forth
Harming lullabies to silence the restless voices
Through the ashes she sees, that which nobody sees
Through the savage survival story
She hears that which no one else hears
The hope, the life and the glory that has dawned upon her
Her essence, her gifts, her sons and daughters
And thus enlightened she stands,
Knowing that to love the other is to heal the self
And, to heal the self is really to serve the other
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