David in troubled times

spilt water from a well,

a libation to Jehovah:

Africa, weep till you shake.

Here we are, asleep with one eye.

We'll get the news: we'll watch with the other.

We never took part in those prayers of yours

so particularly pitted against the black,

which banished thought and cracked the cliffs

from Tugela up to Wukuwa.

We, the daughters of ochre smearers,

say this: we'd stake all against you.

Where's a water well in Africa?

I saw a baboon with dirty teeth.

The well of the Jews is there to this day.

In a word: our well is dry.

It's clear from the grazes on our face

as if we'd been hit with clods of mud.

You sit outside, reluctant to rise.

Fill Africa's wells with water.

Other nations are open to view,

our home is steeped in darkness.

Indeed, the African well's run dry.

I saw a baboon with dirty teeth!

The water well's a tearful hearth:

to speak is to burst into tears.

I roamed the land without a book.

What has David's book got to say?

Where's human kindness, softness and sweetness?

You'll come back, screaming and kicking.

The land is aflame and the Creator's not guilty.

Who doesn't weep in the face of oppression?

The world's nations tug at each other,

waste themselves for a bone of earth,

stockpiling weapons in their lust

for this long-renowned land of ours.

David in troubled times

spilt water from a well,

and did so time and again.

Sluggard, what do you say about time?

The well of the Jews is there to this day,

through hounding, sorrow and sword.

I say you'll come back, screaming and kicking,

whether you like it or not.

Let the waters of Africa bellow,

roar till they burst their banks,

raising even the sots in the Orange!

I charge you, with no holding back.

Peace!