I’m a flower into the rising
Burning sun of dry Sahara
I’m a flower into no summer but spring
I’m a flower right in winter
A flower just before autumn

I will wither not

I’m a son of the soil
Yet my roots no longer belong
I am the son to those who fought
I am of the oppressed, not long ago

I will wither not

My stem will remain, long after the wind has blown
I am a flower of the Cape Floral
When bees feed off me
I will still gloom long afterwards

I will wither not

When rain pours down on me
Your feet crushing my head
Or your vase is no longer cared for
The soil fruitless
I will remain with fruition
For whomever that feeds off my essence
Shall still have provision

I will wither not!

I’m living a daily routine
Should I, on my way, counter with
Whatever life throws at my trembling feet
Should I discover the absence of my fibula?
I will still find a reason to walk
Whatever reason may it be
I will still find a motive
Faith lives in me
And I do in it
I will stop not
I will wither not

For all that comes after
I will look into no one’s path

I am flower, not a rose nor the protea
But a flower
And as such roots always spread
Tamper with them
Still will I grow

I will wither not.