The child is not dead

The child is not dead 
The child lifts his fists against his mother
Who shouts Afrika ! shouts the breath
Of freedom and the veld
In the locations of the cordoned heart

The child lifts his fists against his father
in the march of the generations
who shouts Afrika ! shout the breath
of righteousness and blood
in the streets of his embattled pride

The child is not dead not at Langa nor at Nyanga
not at Orlando nor at Sharpeville
nor at the police station at Philippi
where he lies with a bullet through his brain

The child is the dark shadow of the soldiers
on guard with rifles Saracens and batons
the child is present at all assemblies and law-givings
the child peers through the windows of houses and into the hearts of mothers
this child who just wanted to play in the sun at Nyanga is everywhere
the child grown to a man treks through all Africans

the child grown into a giant journeys through the whole world
Without a pass 

This time I wanna start my post with a poet from South Africa , Ingrid Jonker. She was a South African poet , committed suicide by walking into the sea when she was 31 .

This week I watched  a biography about her life . Movie called black butterflies. She fascinated me with her poems , I felt her feeling through her words . It touched my heart and after watching movie , it makes more sense to me . She had a tough life with her father with her relation ships with politics ...
It was also tough times for Afrikaans. 






I learned also a little bit of South African history , I recommend everybody to watch , thats a really good movie you don't wanna 
miss it :)  

LARA :)