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We stand in a small white clump
Like the ghosts of the past
Drifted onto Dube's hill,
Wiser day by day, but still
Not sure of where we are.
Below, beyond the gate, we see
The living swarm, a sea
Of Black youth in blue and white,
Their joyous chatter a song of life,
Overflowing with tomorrow.
Before us, the sacred circle
Of Dube's grave, abstract to us,
But for the stone and plaque, as we
In our hats, point and photograph the facts.
We hear, not yet knowing where we are.
Gradually, the point sinks in,
As our host's extended arm and compact fist
Reveal the wreath, still there, that Tambo laid,
The spot Mandela chose to speak,
The place he came to cast that mighty vote.
--Dennis Huffman
April 2010 This poem was inspired by a trip on the INK Writers trail, which visits Inanda Seminary, the Phoenix Settlement and Ohlange Institute.
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