This thing of ours

It's beautiful
It's taboo

Say no more of Robert Sobukwe

Say no more of Robert Sobukwe, He is alive

He refused to rest in peace

Until Africa belonged to Africans

Until every child of this soil 

Was the rightful owner of every inch

He is alive

His voice still hidden

But his ideas slowly finding roots

In the brains of every child of this soil

That yearns for what yesteryears robbed him

A Land to call his own

A Land given to him

Sobukwe is alive

In the Students who are hungry to learn

To be of service to Africa

Sobukwe lives 

In endless cries for Land

Sobukwe Lives 

In the endless yearning for Azania 

Say no more of Robert Sobukwe 

He is not a distant memory

He is in every breath 

That seeks to liberate Azania

Live Sobukwe Live

Rise Sobukwe Rise

Shine your light on Africa

Morocco to Madagascar 

Africa for Africans

Africans for Humanity 

Humanity for God

Sobukwe Lives, He is alive

Right (Rose)

A wrong so right

It's like thorns on a rose

Pricks delightfully

Amidst aromas of beauty untold

This lines cannot tell

Of an honest wrong

That is everything but wrong

it's a right

It cannot be stopped

Its beauty is eternal 

It lurks through the ugly 

To shine like a star at dawn

A right so wrong 

Wild like a rose 

Bome pome

Asi bome pome
ndi bome pome
Ndi lunzienzie ali lali
Ndi khangala khanyise
Ndi lumbile mbile ya Nevondo
Ine u viiwa ya beba mbilanana

Vhanwe vhe ndi Magupta
Vhanwe vhe musetsho u Nkandla
Hupfi asi zwone ndi Duduzane
Vhanwe vhe ndi Gigavha

Ho sala bome pome
Na vho Ramaphosa avha zwikoni
Wotsa na bada, muthelo wo ya
Wo swiswinwa ro sedza

Ho sala bome pome
Vhanwe vhe ndi ANC
Minwe i sumba i songo sumba
Ha sumba na ya vhaloi

Khea mabunyu
Asi hevhe hevhe ndi hevhe hevhe
Vhaamba vha sa fhedzi
Ho nwalwa na zwirendo
Hu imbwa na dzinyimbo
Hone vhungoho he ndi bva vhubvo
Ndi bome pome

Not a poem

Don't write a poem
for a hungry child
Don't sing a song
For a landless people

Their agony is not in verses
Their pain is not in rhymes

Don't write that poem
from a table set for steaks
A hungry child will not eat your echos

Don't sing that song
from a mansion of opulence
Landless people won't be sheltered by your high notes

Don't write a poem
Don't sing a song

Beware the wings

Beware the wings
Broken, life is an unbearable chalice
Don't marvel
when you see wings broken
They break a soul
They break tomorrow
Into fractures of hopelessness 
Beware the wings
Broken, reduced a King Eagle into a squeaking birdy
And a blissful flight becomes a drag
that drips with sorrow and tears
Some fly away
Some wither with the night

Dont blow that trumpet

(For Hugh)
Don't blow that trumpet
HE is emancipated
Through the vistas of time
The dejection and the kick of HIS trumpet
carries with it an incessant memory
of the melody of protest
of the melody of blackness
of the melody of Africa and the world in one
Rise in Power

Did our brothers have a choice? (Marikana)

(Based on the poem of the same name by Essop Patel for Staffrider Volume 4 April/May 1981)

Did our brothers have a choice between
families drowning in hunger and
 a meagre R12500.00 in wages?

Did our brothers have a choice between
A raging Buffalo charging for platinum and
the solitude of poverty stricken shacks?

Did our brothers have a choice between
going home to their hungry kids and
leaving without goodbye?

Did our brothers have a choice between
the thorn of the barbed wire and
the sting of the R5 bullets?

Did our brothers have a choice between
stopping the gushing blood out of their bullet wounds and
staring death on the face as it trumps?

Did our brothers have a choice between
Home and
Heaven?

Did our brothers have a choice between
The platinum-hell miles and miles underground; and
The hell 6-feet under?

Did our brothers have a choice between
A walk in a park
and a deadly run to a bullet hail?

Mystery

Strangers
In a strange way
They make you look
And before dawn
There is no memory of yesterday
A new day is come
And you look foward to a moment
To a time
of untold mystries
To a blissful end

Timeless

What if our world is timeless?
Years, months, hours, minutes and seconds
Are nothing but phantom
Social constructs of delusion
Secretly locking us in moments
When we are, at out best
Soulful gliders walking soaring in timelessness

What if our eyes opened?
And we saw time without beginning
Time without an end
Would we dream of infinity
Would we step into it
and embrace it's never endingness

What if we woke up to reality?
Could we see beyond shadows of time
Beyond yesterday and tomorrow
Or would we be stuck in disbelief
haunted by a never ending time

Would we need another year?
Beg and plead for another day?
In the absence of time
Or would we float
Like nothing