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Friday, 02 November 2012 18:37

This Land, This Country

I place my soul in the soles of my feet
careful not to place all my weight
reluctant to bury my toes
Into this land. Into this country.

I contort my thick tongue hopeful to produce clicks to enter the cliques
to speak with the taste, with understanding
Of this Land. Of this country.

I try to fathom how to profit from prophets of stones and bones
eager to form part of the mountains
part of the skeleton
Of this Land. Of this country.

I yearn to find a sense of value beyond rands and cents
desperate to bask in the richness,
in the naturalness
Of this land. Of this country.

How do I begin to unravel all of my hours
so that I may too begin to claim what is ours.
In our land. In our country.

Why is that I must carry my ancestors in my skin,
they do not hold any weight in my heart?
My synapses are free from their mass
gravity has long since lifted their sense from me.
Does their blood batter me to such an extent?
Why then do I never feel their pulse?

My blood is colourless with the plasma of the new generation.
The white cells of my ancestors have long since drowned in it.
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