The child is not dead

the child raises his fists against his mother

who screams Africa screams the smell

of freedom and heather

in the locations of the heart under siege

 

The child raises his fists against his father

in the march of the generations

who scream Africa scream the smell

of justice and blood

in the streets of his armed pride

 

The child is not dead

neither at Langa nor at Nyanga

nor at Orlando nor at Sharpeville

nor at the police station in Philippi

where he lies with a bullet in his head

 

The child is the shadow of the soldiers

on guard with guns saracens and batons

the child is present at all meetings and legislations

the child peeps through the windows of houses and into the hearts of mothers

the child who just wanted to play in the sun at Nyanga is everywhere

the child who became a man treks through all of Africa

the child who became a giant travels through the whole world

 

Without a pass