There was an indifferent rain, which wet us on our trip up to the city—
Despite this, a fire burnt in the veldt at
Vosloorus, blurring our view, making
the motorists in their Mercedes squint,
but for a moment, at the many shacks
that lined the side of the highway.
There are ghosts on these roads— in these townships,
and in the rain puddles, there are red reflections of crimson skies that are not there.
In the smoke, I was seized with apprehension, plagued by images from memories which did not seem to be my own.
It was all a dream, it seems— Nothing, but a dream.
And at night, or in the day,
only dreams.
When I pulled up to the house, I thought, “Had I ever left?”
But when I stepped inside, I knew I had. Things had changed.
The Earth had shifted beneath my feet, and from where I stood and viewed the world, objects cast long shadows— long and frightening shadows—in which things lived and crawled,
too tired,
could no longer fight
those battles I had done.
Had done,
though not entirely won.
Yet from the hills whence I had come,
there was a sun. Its faint glow all but
piercing the clouds; Its weakness—its
failure to stand up and take back the
sky corrupted and exploited by the
shadows—cast now even longer
claws along a longtime battered ground.
I have so hoped to kiss that sun again: To raise it high above the shade, and hold it so it never sinks from view.
Perhaps this place will always be in darkness, but I—my heart one day released from night—will escape to the warmth, and move to some place bright and new.