How could I say all I wanted to say,
when you snatched the questions in my throat,
bleeding my thoughts?
On the road from Grahamstown,
your serenity was a ferocity at the steering.
Yes, the steering, on the bumpy roads,
those bumpy roads that you commanded
and steered, like a colonel in the colonial army,
with steel, with fervor.
That we were not accidented
was because you were not an accident,
you were only waiting to happen!
Do you remember those roads?
Yes, those roads?
Does the Prussian gene running through your Anglo arteries,
produce that Mona Lisa smile, that puzzles
and pierces in concurrent cadences?
We are coming from Grahamstown,
and we are heading for Grahamstown;
a merry-go-round that was merry,
but redolent of missed goals.