| Gedicht van de week: Ingrid Jonker – Moenie slaap nie |
The child is not dead the child raises his fists against his mother who screams Africa screams the smell of freedom and heather in the locations of the heart under siege The child raises his fists against his father in the march of the generations who scream Africa scream the smell of justice and blood in the streets of his armed pride The child is not dead neither at Langa nor at Nyanga nor at Orlando nor at Sharpeville nor at the police station in Philippi where he lies with a bullet in his head The child is the shadow of the soldiers on guard with guns saracens and batons the child is present at all meetings and legislations the child peeps through the windows of houses and into the hearts of mothers the child who just wanted to play in the sun at Nyanga is everywhere the child who became a man treks through all of Africa the child who became a giant travels through the whole world Without a pass |