My son
My heart bleeds that in your twenty third year
You have nothing to offer me
I am grieved that you have – nothing
To call your own
Even though my tear glands have dried up
My heart still weeps that destiny
Has not been kind to you
Son
My heart weeps silent tears
That you have no place to call your own
That you have out-grown this house
I am grieved that my sweat has dried up
On you
Leaving fragile cracks of hope
My son
My heart bleeds
That I could not have offered you better
My son
My soul bleeds that you have grown
At the wrong time
Caught in an evil net as fish of the sea
My heart weeps for your generation
And the one to follow after you
For the family you shall struggle to raise
My son
My heart bleeds that:
I have nothing to offer you
But my dried up sweat and lost vision
A spirit of anger whose blazing passion has
Kindled from a little fire inside
Into a full-blown veld fire engulfs me
Born out of my frustration and yours,
My son
My heart weeps uncontrollably that
All the work of your hands and mine
Has been too little an effort to count
My heart bleeds that
Your clouds
Have no silver-lining but-grey
My son
I bleed that
I have planted a seed and reaped
Only a grain
That you have no seed to plant
What shall you reap?
What then shall be your harvest?
My son my weeping has caused dry bones
And my bleeding has caused
A wound that will not heal
My dearest son
My heart bleeds for you!
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