SIYAMTHANDA-MUHLE MUYANGA

Angisagxilanga ekukhathaleni komzimba,
kepha liyafa izwi lami……
elafundiswa ukuba ngingaphuphi 
ngaphezulu kokuqunga isibindi.

Yebo iso lesikhathi linemfiliba
liyakwazi ukuphandla ukuba ungaboni ikusasa. 
Tomorrow became ifa,
a dream so vast
it stole my sight from today.
Angisaboni!

Kwabe sekuhlasela amazwi…
"Know your place." 
Sinizwile nisenza inhlekisa.
They watched us pencil down our dreams
And I watched them drag a heavy rubber across the page until time could no longer recognise 
isibuko saso.

Amaphupho awadukanga,
Ashiye amehlo
and entered the elsewheres of the unconscious:
Mngqondo ongaziwayo!
wenzeni ngathi? (unconscious what have you done to us?)

Kunefu, elingaceli imvumo ukuba libe imvula. 
Akekho olizilelayo.
No one gathers
to ask where it has gone.
Bayezwa,
that changing form is
not the same
as ukunyamalala.
 
Yet when a people’s dreams take on a
language
their ancestors never spoke, we
call it decay
Sithi balahlekelwe!
Sithi bayakhohlwa !
Mhlawumbe senze iphutha.
Perhaps decay
is refusing
to acknowledge
what has already transformed.

Long enough
to blame the unconscious instead
of asking
what was done
to the imagination
of a people.
Ukufa ngifisa.
Not the death of
memory.

The death 
of believing
that memory
must remain unchanged to
remain true.

Because

So let the old dream 
die without mourning, 
if its death
makes room for
a people who
can finally
dream again.