They stand on the eve of life
Wheeled in by rogue little boys
Like a kingdom of dreams strong
Adorned to the blue skies of light
Awaiting the twelfth hour of night
When the soldiers of segregation dance
Killing the demons that brought apartheid
As bright as the candles in dark rooms
They are set alight in the blaze of vanity
Paying homage to fallen comrades of audacity
Their cenotaphs written in blood
Lost in the bushes of fire as ghosts
In graves celebrated without hosts
Like the treads on the black trees
Wheeled in by rogue little boys
Who are clothe in new garments
Their song heard in the distance
“These are the boom-fires of life!”
They do, stand on the eve of life
A remembrance of hours gone by
The old boys knowing of the pain
When the gas forced the tears to rain
The stones of hearts attacking the cavalry
Taking flight in the pale skies behind armor
As the dawn show the remnants of war
In the ebullience of a prejudice commander
Bodies of young guerillas frozen in the dirt
The women crying blood,
For eyes will-no-longer flirt
Others caged in mobile coffins to Sun City
Living behind treads of remorse and pity
Like the mighty Mandela they went
Only to see neither shore nor front
As the shadows of Steve Biko in the night
The black trees stand in the townships
Swiveled in the air to wash away sorrow
In suits of gentleman that where hard to borrow
Their song heard in the distance
“Mayibuye iAfrica!”
By Linda Sakazi Thwala
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