My heart is bleeding.
My elders to be leading,
But within the sand they’re buried.

My heart is groaning.
The poets have lost their tongues!
The echoes of the musicians swallowed by the nasty, dusty caves.
The choreographer’s feet frozen!

The cries of our mother’s kids
Grow tireless in the fuming flames,
Their scent breezes as a cologne set free from the elegant bottle.

My heart is dying
Our mother taught us Ubuntu!
That I am, that I am because we are
We were made from the dark clay.
Roasted by the sun,
Son we’re surely stronger than that