These handlebars of a bicycle
That goes down the road on its own.
The cyclist with hands in the air.
You who has a beehive hairdo
So round it is that of a Zulu woman,
Whose red lips are like the beak
Of the smallest bird on the tree,
That sucked nectar out of every flower,
And spread it as far as the eye can see,
Leaving pollen powdering the air.
This daughter of ours that bathes in milk,
Whose ears shine in the sun,
That appears and draws out laughter,
Even out of the saddest person.
She who rules with the tail of a horse,
Swatting fungus out of the air,
Making life more of what it is,
This spirit of the people of the land.
The tallest shrub that graces the land,
This orchid so yellow it raises things,
Up skyward when they are lying down,
This sinless, sinful member of ours,
That the clan of those who came from afar,
Gave us.
This handle of the walking stick
Cut out from herbal trees that are bitter sweet,
That came from across the blue oceans long ago,
And rubbed into us its bitterness
When we did not know that in bitterness,
Lies the power of the herbs that heal the land.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem