On a green hill not so far away.
A woman wails
and tears her dress.
Her mother
(no more)
lies sprawled
in knee-deep grass.
Her Brother’s eyes
bleed
with anger
and deadly intent
as he carries
his corner
of the blanket;
weighed down
by what’s left
and
by his grief.
The yellow mouth
of the van
yawns wide
to receive her remains
and the people scream;
“Hamba Gashle”
Go Well and
“Longile Mama”
All is well.
We will revenge this rape.
The phallic blade
will pierce again
its beloved flesh.
We will dance our victory
The roaring flames of their house
will illuminate our blood
and reflect in our eyes.
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