Monday, 31 August 2020

Sparks, by Rethabile Masilo

Your father digging sounds, metallic with stone,
makes the afternoon spark at the bottom
of a mountain on the outskirts of Mokhotlong.
You wanna make something yourself too,
the eyes of someone, their full nose,
dense lips. You’ve thought up the final product,
the eyebrows of a child whose mind will undo
this country’s problems. These thoughts your father
put into your head with the broad of his back
and the sound of his tools, with whose sparks
life lights and sends bugs into the faltering air.
And because you have survived locusts, the Flood,
fought invaders who arrived in wheeled metal
and cut heads across your land, fought blood
the way Abraham was about to kill his son for it
to please the voice in his head, you watch your dad dig
and continue to build a future around your black head.
When the sun sinks behind the mountain you stand
and follow your old man home, light rays kindling
the holy summit of your halo above a village mine.


Li fella kae taemane tsa Lesotho?

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