Singing, a poem by Rethabile Masilo
You can't run away from yourself
�Bob Marley
What she is singing I don't know, on a street so long,
so daft, like a passage with tall walls�no one knows
what her song means, and we show no interest in it�
yet with her small voice of children she sings the song
of a hymn. Why are you singing this? I ask. She looks
at me and sings about my clothes, the look on my face
and the climate that is getting ready to crash upon us,
and goes on about my vehicle and the house I live in;
when I look up, the answer from the sky is tears
of the kind she has been singing about, and so we run
everywhere, every woman, child and man, run away,
like one enormous bang, from the sound of her song.
�Bob Marley
What she is singing I don't know, on a street so long,
so daft, like a passage with tall walls�no one knows
what her song means, and we show no interest in it�
yet with her small voice of children she sings the song
of a hymn. Why are you singing this? I ask. She looks
at me and sings about my clothes, the look on my face
and the climate that is getting ready to crash upon us,
and goes on about my vehicle and the house I live in;
when I look up, the answer from the sky is tears
of the kind she has been singing about, and so we run
everywhere, every woman, child and man, run away,
like one enormous bang, from the sound of her song.
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| At the Chat Noir Photo by Sabine Dundure |
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