The Child that died at Nyanga*
The child is not dead
The child lifts his fist against his mother
Who shouts Afrika! shout the breath
Of freedom and the veld
In the shanty-towns of the cordoned heart
The child lifts his fist against his father
In the march of the generations
Who are shouting Afrika! shout the breath
Of righteousness and blood
In the streets of his embattled pride
The child is not dead
Not at Langa nor at Nyanga
Nor at Orlando nor at Sharpeville
Nor at the police station at Philippi
Where he lies with a bullet through his head
The child is the shadow of the soldiers
On guard with their rifles saracens and batons
The child is present at all assemblies and legislation
The child peers through the windows of houses and into the
hearts of mothers
This child who just longed to play in the sun at Nyanga is
everywhere
The child grown into a man treks on through all Africa
The child grown into a giant journeys over the whole world
Carrying no pass
Ingrid Jonker
translation from Afrikaans by Jack Cope
