Through The Dusty Storm ...
(on emigrating from Rhodesia)
Through the dusty storm
Of summer and winter alike
What idea does one form
Of life, and its likes?
For in Rhodesia we fought
And many mistakes were made;
The struggle came to nought
And many a life was laid.
The exodus then came;
"To the South" was the cry,
The fit, the lazy, the lame,
Were looking for a new sky.
With open arms received
They came, and not a few,
And soon they did perceive
That life had to start anew.
As life before consisted
Of guns and camouflage kit
Most of them enlisted;
As a way of life they knew it.
No time was required
To break the new ground
For soon they realized
't was the second time 'round.
Life was much the same
As that of days afore,
Mistakes were being made,
The same ones we did before.
The radio and the TV
Had all we'd seen and heard,
For the same people, you see,
Were guiding the common herd.
The slow disintegration
Of morals and stands,
Sacred to the older generation,
Was common to both lands.
The language, strange and rustic,
Was difficult to comprehend,
But the speeches, just like music,
Where familiar, from start to end.
In the name of brotherhood
Did all the leaders speak,
And slowly they put the hood
Over the falcon's head and beak.
Army talk was just the same,
"Communism we must defeat!"
And young men went and came
Their blood to give against it.
Of this common enemy
Very few did understand
That this mysterious entity
Belonged to a foreign land,
Who behind a religious cloak
Hide their true intention:
To deceive the "goy" they loath
And destroy all contention.
Those who could see clearer,
And the rest tried to warn,
Were shouted down and jeered
And treated with scorn.
The pride of one's race
Became the greatest sin,
And all efforts were made
To keep the darkness in.
All this we've seen before,
In a time not so long past,
And like a pestilent sore
We wonder how long will last.
So time passes us all,
Little difference can we see
Of its circles ever small
Till the end of life be.
Pretoria, 1981.
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