30 November 2019

Salt, a poem by Rethabile Masilo

Wounds come like words from the mouth
of the torn Republic: you do not belong here!
with language it thinks we do not speak,
till we are born into autumn once again,
as gusts chase foliage along streets lined
with a flying blaze: red and yellow flames
fleeing with their kilts uplifted, the way
sails bloomed when we were brought here.
Different roads can lead to the same place.
Men and women share salt and dialogue
with each other, share the grace of a simple
game of chance, make it past ramparts. Share,
on each other’s lips, the trusted brine of life.

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