Editor, thanks for the poets’ column,

I'm still here, a young man and no poet,

I carry the milkpail to arm-ringed celebrities

and I have not one bead of an arm-ring.

When will we gain ourselves glory?

What animal won't choose kindness?

Our fathers bore the yoke together,

together they snapped the traces.

Jehovah, replenish our days on earth,

as you did in the time of our fathers.

Did you forsake us forever

in your anger against us?

Jehovah, replenish our days on earth,

as you did in the time of our fathers,

Beater of Sandile's drum,

Langalibalele's black cow.

Maqoma said so, and they called him mad

for spurning the madness of surrender.

In the light of day you sold your kingdom

and went in search of a wife.

When will we gain ourselves glory,

become a nation rooted in glory?

Please, my people, don't die to life,

at a loss while the nation still lives.

Your kings and their people without distinction

must gain glory for themselves.

Glory says “Sing in chorus

and die side by side with your own.”

This nation rests on the law of the bible,

traitors must forfeit their lives.

They rip out its glory, kill the nation:

our power wanes, and we're ripe for invasion.

Such a nation cannot stand,

with all its glory gone.

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

the walking dead sinking deeper.

Maqoma said so, and they called him mad

for spurning the madness of surrender.

We scattered our own to help other nations,

wanting them to take care of us.

The old voice said, “You're dying, Africa.”

The gainsayers countered: “How can she die?”

Now what can you say? “The country's at war.

Bereft of glory Africa's fallen.”

Locusts flourish among our youngsters,

gangsters flourish in our land.

Jehovah, replenish our days on earth,

as you did in the time of our fathers.

We offer sacrifice!