As the radio reminds us every day:
Rifles are writing bloody lyrics
Across our country.
For this reason
You would rather I stop singing
Of love and kindness,
You would rather I instead play
The kind of music that makes us dance
So that with each step we extol
The name of our tribe.
It is possible that if I stopped singing
The hope that keeps couples awake
Drenching cold nights in steaming sweat
Knocking on heaven's door
With insistent prayer;
If I started playing this music of our time
– The praises of our kinspeople
Will gather on my head, a crown.
To every bird her call, I say.
To every bird her call.
No. I will not sing
Songs that tether dancer-feet
To the rhythm of a drill.
Yes. I will continue singing
This commonplace hope
And its labour.
Without them nothing is.