Within my soul, within my mind,

There lies a place I cannot find.

Home of my heart, land of my birth.

Smoke Coloured stone and flame-coloured earth.

Electric skies, shivering heat.

Blood-red clay beneath my feet.

At night when finally alone,

I close my eyes - and I am home.
I kneel and touch the blood warm sand

and feel the pulse beneath my hand

of an ancient life too old to name

In an ancient land too wild to tame.

How can I show you what I feel?

How can I make this essence real?

I search for words in dumb frustration

To try and form some explanation,

but how can heart and soul be caught

In one dimensional written thought?

If love and longing are a "fire"

And man "consumed" by his desire,

then this love is no simple flame

That mortal thought can hold or tame.

But what is home I hear them say,

This never was yours anyway.

You have no birthright to this place,

Descendant from another race.

An immigrant? A pioneer?

You are no longer welcome here.

Whoever said that love made sense?

"I love" is an "imperfect" tense.

To love in vain has been man's fate.

From history to present date.

I have no grounds for dispensation,

I know I have no home or nation.

For just a moment in the night.

I am complete, my soul takes flight.
For just one moment...then it's gone

and I am once again undone.

Never complete. Never whole.

White Skin and an African Soul.