In Khami, by
the reeds, the river
touches us with
hands of Torwa
playing tsoro
under chequered
walls now ruined:
moistens breeze and
earth before the
first upheaval
of the daga
at the birth of
uNkulunkulu.
No dam in the
tiny valley
can hold back the
in-rush of the past
however sluggish-
ly the stream swirls,
placid amid
vegetation,
slowed by its fill
of memories,
preserving the best
treasure of the
tribe, the presence
and the force, for us
who pace or squat
and ponder this
culture that out-
lives its ruin;
this Khami that,
out of the body,
across gulfs of
place and time, can
outlast the stone;
present itself
to the observer
gently, wave like
breeze in noon warm
beds of rushes,
after levelling
ramparts through the
centuries of winds'
less honeyed words:
speak to win us
to its total
otherness e-
lated croaking
place past time, the
unfinished bus-
isness of its peace.
Like a drum
the talking ruin
mails the throbbing
skin's: "Remember."