Artwork Of Conflict At Lonmin Mine Poem by Frank Wright

To live is to know

words, colours and incidents.

Sometimes words shrivel,

like tsammas cut off in the desert and abandoned,

things then happen in colours.

Its then that the steaming red blood

flows forth from white and ochre cliffs of wonder

down, down, down past the green

growth of thorn-trees left,

up to fourteen blood stained

boots neatly packed into a triangle,

big and healthy down to the

frightened shadow, tiny like a mouse

burnt into the white zinc little house

on the right.

At the back, the purple heavens -

for ages already bleeding.

Behind the seven shooters -

blue-grey

maybe not the life promises of water -

but new life and hope could be possible.

The sharp point of the triangle

points to the little unknown house,

resembling maybe a latrine

as the destiny of screaching and protesting feet:

dehumanisation is a modern amusement,

just like on television. In high definition.