The clouds

The clouds have come to cry
o’er this land, South Africa,
like the grief that overspills
one who cannot sleep.

It’s a drip and drop that ne’er will cease
until the past is broken up
and scattered on the winds of time
like dust of no significance.

But dust, you know, the dust of life,
the foundation of the masses,
builds and grows, accumulates,
to turn nothing into something.

Not a rock but a storehouse
of grief and pain, heartache, loss,
all the joys childbirth can bring,
and love in all its many forms.

Sad to say there ne’er can be
a storehouse broken down and lost
but I and you can build anew
based on a different view ~
as soon as, as soon as,
we push the clouds away!