Yet We Do Not Know Poem by Thabani Khumalo

I am at makeshift with a wonderful gift;
I am not yet at a favorable place upon the ground
to bind matching words together and alter a tone -
that altogether sounds out to be a tune of deeper thought,

I usher in wise words from the other side;
and for that lingering reason,
for all my life I have not been clearly understood:
I have always portrayed a different side to the view - any view.
there has been, always, a maginary difference
to everything portrayed as being uniformly the same.

I do not know what it is we have on our fathers,
that we should neglect their memory into non existence -
the one- and-only true memory of who we are
as physical beings who have circulated
the ever capping land of the planet earth.

We follow the Christ and the myths
fearfully with all the might of being,
we stomp the women trying to get men to convert,
we invoke the ghosts of heaven to scare us at night
and ordain them as Gods to whom we pray our ridiculous vanities
and the very same are still known as Devils to some,

we fight over buildings and the soil particles,
we kill many men with little toys, we do buy,
fighting over opinions that will expire shortly
with the development of modern science.

We enjoy to murder strangers by the order of a job,
the soldiers' boss says they must die
and so they get murdered by lawful onslaughts. We interrupt the processes of human life
and render man to the grave while he is young,
we seize the space and end a life by force in cold blood,
yet we do not know who we really are.