From the shack covered hills
of the shanty town
a dazed old man struggles down
with cold chills and hot thrills
going through his body.
Flags of sheets and washing
flap in the strong wind
and in pain he grinds his teeth
while he struggles on to a meeting
past grunting dogs, past logs on hot fires
and he hears the shik-shik chanting of an old witch,
called a sangoma by some, throwing bones, while carrying
his heavy load and he reaches home, where his wife and kids
are waiting on the sack of flour that he carries.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
An interesting tale. Makes one wonder where he got the sack of flour, Did he pay for it or steal it? Just a little slice of his life, enough to make us curious. Well done.