Angry Streets

Soweto was once like this--
cried like this, with rumblings from her belly;
streets like this-- bent, strained and gray;
hoarse from her angry pleas,
when dancers were swayed by the echoes
of war drums, hungry for change
and the villager's nostrils grew weary
of air, stained black with greed.

Soweto once heaved like this--
dry, from forced fed oppression;
fingers shredded from scratching the soil
for scraps of a bountiful harvest--
blur tears in the eyes of her children,
from the burn in their empty bellies;
anger in the eyes of her elders,
from a void left by heartless leaders.

Soweto once died like this,
when the voice of the village grew stronger
and the sound of the drum echoed louder,
only to fade into stained, black air--
then dancers became fighters,
guns replaced drums
and tears turned to blood in the children's eyes
and red nights bubbled hatred,
as they wept in their sleep,
with screams of change as their lullaby.

Soweto can speak of this,
in the remembered voice of students slain
and the sound of life lying down in sacifice
in exchange for liberty.
we would be wise to remember her story--
lovely Soweto, where the sun sets in peace,
for both her destruction and resurection
were born from a rumbling in the streets.