Whisper a prayer for the young at heart,
coming to save us from their distant part.
Echoing cries to the eyes of the night,
climbing high on the wings of their fight.
For look beyond the whispered hearsay:
Taste the violence where peace once lay.
Sleep at night with hateful eyes,
murder, corruption, and innocent cries.
This is the song of the new South Africa,
which yellows our hearts with tasteless paprika.
Our silenced screaming is making us beam
a painful crescendo to wake all from their dream.
Political parties are odorous sorts.
We should rather bring peace to all of our thoughts.
But I smell a danger afflicting intention:
Apathetic indifference requires attention.
Black, white, a myriad of colours,
voices heard from beyond our mothers.
Are ears, toes, anatomy to blame?
For we have become our own thrilling game.
Running far from where we forgot,
there are fatal words in my parking lot.
We cannot run, we cannot lie.
This is our answer, our future’s cry.
I lift my eyes to this confusing craze,
thinking clearly in this ghostly haze.
I see a future of fearful times,
lost and severed by our ignorant crimes.