His black skin lay wrinkled trembled across a tired face The same face bearing the tides of oppression Age even though unwelcome, intruded; knocked on the door and forced itself in… Forcing him apart. A young black male, born ’85, complains about apartheid over his gaudy cell phone Designer jeans reflecting spirit soul and a million bucks born into a wealthy family. Still babbling, complaining …hating. The word “kaffir” never defined within his ostentatious mind An old black man dies years and years after having been beaten by the white farmer he worked for. Never complaining, feeding his six children, and seven wives. Remembering oppression, and crying whilst, staring at his shack’s tin roof. His lifeless body then being gazed at, whilst, slowly descending into the black crevasse that is grave, Looked upon by only… … now… three children and two wives. A white man stares into busy streets noticing the ongoing traffic and the concrete picture of a thousand static buildings - the same movie on repeat, Still, staring, not seeing one single image, nostalgically reminiscing and missing the open fields and thousand trees, the mielies and the wheat Remembering… …his two sons and wife. The black killer’s eyes are bleeding whilst staring at his moving feet Each step carefully placed softly so as to make him invisible. approaching the farmhouse door Knocking, panga in hand– fingers trembling at the ready Nearing the justified kill; Revenge for stealing his land (the insatiable blood thirst’s excuse) is but three deaths away Blood drips from his eyes, and onto the cold sharpened steel. Remembering the white dictator's bloodshot eyes. A young man ponders about the tacit beauty that is man Made from flesh, blood and soul. Fragile and frail. Ready to die. Made in Heaven.
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