When I say: I am made of the red soil, pressed in with welcomed footprints of our spoken stories,
I believe it.
When I say: I am filled with the sun’s rays, shining down on me as a mother’s touch,
I feel it.
I do not say this lightly.
When you, white man,
Laugh at the spirit I know flows through my bruised fingertips and swollen toes,
Can’t you see you’re tearing me apart?
Your ideas, your atheism –
You clash with my motherland pulsing through my soul
And you crush me
Again and again.