Somewhere in Angola
you were planted
back into African soil
from where you sprouted
to make it young again
with blood
marked with a small cross
that’s blown away by the dry wind
and there you
child of God
also found a Golgotha
and I wonder how many boys:
still have to fall in Africa
before the last shots ring?
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem