The people are not people without hands soaked in solemn.
Ice cold; shivering,
They are graves stuck between Heaven and Hell
Death is a flag planted in their frozen veins.
Yet they walk with splinter covered feet; a sole of pains.
The people bathe in cleanliness
With hands stretched out;
A society of baggers with golden voices;
A million ‘’Come by here’s ’’
Is a prayer he comes by one unknown Sunday.
The people are whited sepulchres
With backs turned against darkness.
Without sight of backstabbers, they walk alongside.
Lights are bright ahead,
No sign of the future.
The people wait with arms straightened,
Dressed in their best patience
So when Gods’ meet with theirs;
They can interlock in a deep language,
Sharing sins and temptations.
The people are strong;
With bibles that carry their daily bread and bed
Even scars of past punishments.
And stories of when they had been to hell
Without any transgressions to explain it.
The people share secrets,
Their lips caress as if it were a ticket to eternity.
If we could feel the passion in their songs
We would taste their cries and see the direction in which their tears flow
Then tomorrow would be the start of a new testament for their battered sons.
The people are transparent
In their days of dark doings;
Their testimonies will shout in their dance.
Temples echo off their pretence.
From wall to wall; their hidden identities parade.
Born in Tembisa, grew up in Polokwane and began writing in 2004.