A little Picinnini born in be-hutted place of thorn,
dust & lowly goat,
Not knowing that one day he´d fight for his people to have
the vote,
Born Xhosa, of
noble birth & from the proud, brave & ancient tribe,
To us Nelson Mandela, but Rolihlahla his true &
real name inscribed.
Known & hunted, the biggest terrorist within his
sad but beautiful land,
Living & fighting by the laws of those white men,
so long ago planned,
Put on trial, found guilty, so very wrongly castigated
& in the end jailed,
While the people of his struggling country prayed
& sadly cried & wailed.
Caged on Robben Island, that very isolated & old Isle
of lost ancient lepers,
Incarcerated, Manacled
in iron-chained & tight white man´s sorry fetters,
Where behind iron bars, lonely years flew fast & apologizing,
past you by,
And you Rolihlahla, the world´s errant hero, would sit
quietly & silently cry.
The long awaited day arrived, when Mandela at last walked
proud & free,
And his life-long struggle scribbled in the African dust,
became lost history,
Washed away in time, from our forgetful memories by drops
of falling rain,
Leaving behind only the scribblings of the world´s receding
& shameful pain.
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