Ah, the grief that grips your land, Nontsizi,

all the things that bring us grief,

recalling our old Mgqwetho kin

wrapped in blankets of skin.

Begone with yesterday's gods,

their ways rip out our hearts,

and so we don't know who we are

and our great men all sit mum.

Today hosts of black people

have long abandoned their customs:

they drove them from their homes

in the heat of the summer sun.

Turn your face to the mountains

and prophesy from them. You too, boy.

You too, son of the vast plains of Africa,

Kindling they fear to gather.

Africa, wail in a mountain cave,

proclaim our condition and rouse the nation.

Even a fox nurses its whelps:

what of yours? In a queue? While you watch?

Jehovah, recall what's befallen us.

Weep on your feet, wayward Africa:

persecution hovers above your head,

you're shattered, wingless buzzard.

You cast aside kingship, polygyny too,

ochre and custom in every village.

What must we make of modern marriage?

Wed then split: where do we get this?

We sit on the fence, won't take a stand,

the walking dead unfamiliar to God.

It may well be true that the Xhosa like joking,

but I have no intention of joking with you.

Jehovah, replenish our days on earth,

as you did in the time of our fathers.

Is it possible that you've snubbed us,

Great Place that sees to the weaning of children?

Today we stand idly by

as brother marries sister:

what's become of the ties of blood?

We share descent with all black nations.

Wailings! So then, my people,

take heart! Remember our countrry.

With all your knowledge, did you stray off and vanish,

with all your accomplishments, just disappear?

Act like a man! Bellow your cry!

After you've fallen get to your knees

and return to the days you wail for

when you'll hear Ntsikana's words

in the end!