These hands will continue to bleed milky blood
That will not even be tasted by its own nation
They will bleed until their blood dries
Like a desert on their arms and age their bones
to fossils,so that between cracks of this fossil desert
the willing hearts will search for themselves
But when dunes of sunsetting winds
Begin to wave and fold their dreams
their skulls will crack no more, they will be cover pages
Of their days ,some will find home between these
Pages ,that today we seem to forget ,
Even lines scripted on these snow lands ,
These written land with no story
they were a reason for them to live
Today they are wearing the soils of their youth hood
And mountain of their adult nightmares
Stories and tale of their wisdom teeth
Encrypted by metaphors ,enciphered by vision
I guess that is the reason why
Madiba's hope still exist in in never land
Milton's paradise remains lost
Martin's dream hasn't been visualized
During today's night let us sit on cusp
And on the sea,fish newly signed blood papers
In the morning we shall return to work
To crushing our old white bones together
with claws on our hands that we use to hurt each other
Refined them to cement so that midday we build
Libraries in our minds for these words ,these heroes
S D Motha
