In our own lands;
Lands of our forefathers,
Lands of our great-great-grand fathers,
Feathered by extremes of other outlanders.
Felt the blame to be thrown
To the fellow next door;
Whilst faith blamed the first war.
War one, war of the mind,
War of shaming, blaming, hating
Instilling poverty within our genes;
Started to be called stubborn,
Kaffers and all bobojanans.
I ain’t filled with hatred but
Stimulated by the manipulation of the past.
Past is past but poverty is
Ain’t wealth and shall eternally be impoverished.
Dumb they were made,
Fooled they were turned against each other,
Sophiatown, Newtown felt the best
While Soweto burn internal anger on tyres along the streets.
Anger of being betrayed their territory;
Identity, mutuality, originality, life and oneself
By foreign selves.
Felt the pain burning lives of Africa
Culled across their streets; our fathers,
Mothers, brothers and sisters
Laid like useless bags of potatoes.
Like plastic flame hatred increased and spread,
As our mothers run across the streets
To claim back our lives, freedom, oneself and identity.
Deeper than the graves where they were dumped like rubbish of the street,
The filter filtered more filtration
To the victim of action.
The country’s future, leaders of tomorrow
Burned with teargas, many killed. “Rest in peace Hector Peterson”
In comfortable offices leading us
Like animals. Poverty of the mind
Well placed like glasses or eggs.
Freaked the frowned derailed the railway
From Pretoria to Johannesburg.
War of weapons end on tragedy of tears;
Friends, families carried to the burial site.
Pain form exospores on their faces
As those thoughts never died with them.
The war of poverty shall never end
For it was instilled psychological.