The sun is rising! We seek a ford,

not only for those in the Cape,

but for every black nation on earth:

men, we're ground underfoot.

I blundered in going to whites!

I felt the cops’ cuffs on me,

they slammed me inside

for a month on salt water.

The Tyelerha Iguana was in with me,

a true giant, the son of Waziya,

and a pot-belly, son of Rhalushe:

damn him, he won't share his prickly pear. Mercy!

May unity shape our path.

We seek a ford for our chiefs to cross,

also appealing to Tshiwo's cohorts

who chant the warcry but keep under cover.

We don't seek a ford that will shatter our wagons:

the pillars of heaven may tumble

after blacks raise their voices

in dance at the gates of Zion.

A ford to ferry us to the far bank,

not for a quick drink and back again:

if that's what we want we're no better than those

who try to prop up a crumbling cliff.

Our present ford is heavy going:

the whites ride us piggyback!

Knowledge, they say, is on their side:

their women excel in cooking.

We seek a ford to bring back in line

our daughters who've left their husbands.

Make it happen, son of Maxeke,

we're watching, Old Teller of Tales.

We don't seek a ford that will shatter our wagons

as we cross the river blindfold.

Let fresh initiates join us

and stop behaving like children.

A ford to lead us back into battle,

not only for those in the Cape;

when we pick and choose amongst ourselves

we muddle things up in confusion.

Let our leaders work till they drop,

the nation's bent for the ford;

let the lead oxen strain at their traces

till they sink to their knees and the disselboom cracks.

Come back this year, Greybeard of ours,

your heart's desires have been met,

course down the valleys, thrust with your spear

till you reach the Boer lands in the west.

Nongqawuse, Mhlakaza's daughter,

your speech caused the men to confer,

for those who've died may rise again

but there's no resurrection for cattle.