Prophet Seekers for Dennis Brutus

Someday our mast will peer from the edge's mist
And rise. And we will cast anchor and dock,
The prow a proud man's chest,
Our sails witness to the absence of any storm.
Bounty from our exile will have long ceased
To thrash, as we carry it gleaming off the deck,
And there'll be folly in people's eyes, our goods
Stamped with god’s ink. Then we'll go
To the cemetery to look, beyond flowers
And rumpled grasses, for the prophet's tomb,
Its inscription will say bulalani abathagathi,
And will be as stark as it must have sounded
When it was first said. We mouth it and shake
Spears at the foe. But the truth is, we come here
With gifts and trophies of wanderings for the children,
Like the time America made us miss home
And we walked the streets clad in Basotho
Blankets. Or listening to long nights of rain
Spill pebbles on the roof. Of course
This is our home, because the rainbow
Claims it. Past is the time of love handcuffed
To a pole. On a cobble-stone path the prophet
Appears with a rustle of leaves between graves,
Swinging fists like Dennis, who persuaded
All of us that love is the only revolution.