that old space
the old farm kitchen opens up
with the smell of mahogany and onion peel
sitting at the robust table with seven generations
of scars on its polished face
Grandmothers switch blade poke in the wood after
Striking against the chauvinist pigs sharing the table
great grandfathers angry rifle stub marking after
the loss against the British for Bloemfontein
the cigarette burn on father’s side when mother cried
uncontrollably when father got shot on the border
the legacy carved into the wooden memory of a family
that may live forever.
.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
old places and spaces speak of so many histories and unspoken words, sometimes it brings pain remembering them, but those are what shaped an individual.