Conscience of a nation to his children
olive tones and texture in his sallow
skin
went to the God of all colours in
winter
when the world is outside white.
And white hearts are black
living in skin stretched and mottled
by the sun of African skies
where his spirit flies.
Like Gandhi, a lawyer condemned
by the laws of his peer
he knew no fear of the dark
which was his manger
his refuge in danger.
They slapped the other cheek
and still he smiled
he knew they could not hurt him
with their wild accusation
they could not stop the rebirth of his
nation.
Christened by his teacher on his first
day at school
he had no paper or stool, no stub pen,
he could ask only why and when.
Accused of high treason; no reason,
Patience patented was his sword and
shield
honed and polished on the penance field
of Robben Island's lime pits of the
free
and Thatcher and Reagan held the key.
South Africa belongs to all who live in
it,
black and white, genius and half wit.
“authority is based on the will of
the people”,he said,
“this land is owned by the living and
dead."
We have been brutalised by an invading
nation
They dont know truth, or
reconciliation.
He went gladly to his maker on December
five
One of the chosen few; dead but still
alive.
(in
memory of Nelson Mandela, named after a pirate)
