I find my roots in the torso of Bantustan, my father, my lineage.
I am defined by the demigods of my origin, bo Marcus Moziah Garvey,
My pride tiles around the boffins of my establishment, bo David walker, the black prophets of time
I just love poetry and I hope she loves me too
They thought I was Black
They thought Intellectual inadequacy and my fitness for enslavement is what characterises me,
They thought their greed will widespread the defilement of my model for social harmony,
They thought removing my name from the national agenda will broaden my lack,
...
Woke up in the morning, be-buzzled by a strange comfort of an apparent artefact scent doffed upon my reality,
Without much tangle I drift from this tally graciously notched in a bubble of ego imagined in the emptiness of things.
I call onto what glory I find in this enigma. Comfort that tables glossy around a passim of reality.
Be it known, more deterioration befuddled with what dims extra care for the unseen, I remain close to sight still.
...
Excuse me lord
Today I had to taste my shed,
Heavy as my head was I rose up
I went to my sanctuary at my while embracing my degrade,
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Victory’s mandate
Tats and Tutsis of the Bantustan native deter my horizon as millages on my yard-speed unfold,
Today I behold the glory apparent on my fellow African’s fate, because of the watch of this day… 1976
On the outskirts of oblivion, I observe the heart of the day as my brother, my saviour steps into a Zloty Street in Soweto,
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I am indebted
How do I bypass the burden put on me by my makers?
The chants of their toi toi are demanding my dues,
Their silence is shouting loud at my mislead being, for I have become like a restless chid,
...