Sweet roses of won battles

      

Scars of memory telling, a nation of victory arises in a desolate land

Where dreams disappear like sands through the hour glass

The young die young and the poor are constant, but this land is a rich soil nourished with unheard voices, unsung heroes and hearts broken beyond rebuilt.

A step at a time the infant learns to walk, drinking the last drop of water from the Namaqua Lands hanging on to mother Africa’s dry breasts, winds blow a whistle of panic, what will we end with?

The soles of our feet are cracked up, the land is thirsty, we seek to the heavens to out pour once again a favour of tears, just to wet our lips and give life to our African skins.

Sweet roses of won battles, scars of memory telling, a nation of victory filled with hope to yet again rise from a desolate land.

But not all is lost, a child of the soil has been birthed from the dust he has an intellect running a million kilometres deep into the unlimited ocean, he has come to pave the way, he has come to unite the rainbow nation, sewing our lacerations up reminding us of our rich history, uniting us in song, uniting us in sports, in spoken word, in entertainment, he has come to unite us in tradition, bringing our religions to their knees.

So once again we can breathe a sigh of relief, no more will our backs be broken to no avail, we stand in unity, holding on to each other’s dreams and say #HireAGraduate. We sing songs of peace united with every colour and hair texture saying #NkosiSikelelaIFrika (God bless Africa).

Instead of the pull him down syndrome we have learnt to push harder and dream further so that the sweet roses of won battles along with the scars of memory telling, can whisper to the nation of victory that it has risen in desolate land

     By: Lihle Dlova