Induce birth pangs in your people,

as in Ngubengcuka's time;

speak as of old in Hintsa's voice.

(The names of kings confuse me.)

Tell me, where do we stand, my people?

On these ridges of our land?

Awu, nitpicking poets

ignore the grain that pecks the chicken.

Tell me, where do we stand, my people?

In these rivers of our land?

Spurn advice and you'll come a cropper,

crawl on your knees like a slow-spreading town.

The bible's been turned into gall:

does ancestral sacrifice follow that path?

We sturdy Reds will die;

your condition's declined till your guts bust.

Tell me, where do we stand, my people,

in this our country of plenty?

I stubbed my middle toe,

fell and rose with the councillors.

Where do we stand today, my people?

Even the stock in our country has gone.

Drought struck; the rivers dried up.

What do they say in the far northeast?

Along the ways, Africa's ravaged.

I tried to sleep but it left me alarmed.

Africa, have you been trashed

like a plate of little worth?

We've quit in despair in Ngqikaland.

The bible slips from our hands and slams shut.

It seemed it would ease our burdens,

instead it brought heavier burdens.

Where do we stand? There's no place to stand.

We're lost as if at Vanity Fair,

for we offer excuses for everything,

nothing but jokes and excuses.