His dark skin and grey hair
His wrinkled face and pale hands
His broken smile that pierces deep into aorta
he smiles as if its the last thing left to do
He has a story to tell, and an audience waiting to listen
His eyes, once so bright and sparkling, now teary and
golden brown. They alone tell a quarter of his story
He seeks the courage and determination
For a long time hes been waiting, waiting to tell his story
Waiting to be listened to and applauded, for 75 years he
waited for that pat on the shoulder. For the standing ovation,
He had this hero inside, calm and patient, the hero waited
And today, the long robes of curtains divorced before him
To the sound of a heroic trumpet, the synchronously opened
The look on his face and he saw the hunger in the faces of the people. All there to witness his speech
Finally, he gained the courage to stand. though his legs disagreed
but the aid of his walking stick shot him straight above the spectators. Today he was great. Today he was the Nelson Mandela
For a long time, oppressors had taken his shine. They had
been so cruel he forgot what being a hero felt like. But today poetry set him free. poetry gave reason, gave him meaning
For 75 years, his was not heard. He was not audible to the people. But Poetry, gave it to him
© 2016,Sakhile Simelane "Sakhy"
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