Where are the last revolutionaries of our time;
the dreamers who listen to ghost whispering from the past in a language of anguish?
When ours is a creativity shaped by our traumatised heritage,
how do we face the night without our binding histories?
Where are the bodies of revolutionaries of yesterday,
to spark raging flames in souls of newly oppressed freedom’s children?
And as we approach memory that exists at the crossroads of the future and present,
without losing sight of the shifting political grounds,
can this generation pray in a different language?
Those disposed bodies were political.
They stir through memory, under the cold sun
celebrated only by the dead who rest in acoustics of spirits that destabilise the present.
They ask:”Where are the spirits of Boikie Tlhapi and his comrades,
when their bodies lie discarded,
into dark bowls of a merciless earth where many black bones toil for wages?
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