papRika

in a moment
between summer
and Cape winter,
patches of bright
green moss
surge forward
to greet the eye
amidst the brittle
colours of autumn

weaving patterns
of vivid green
adorn once-drab
paving stones,
and everywhere
along the road
to Franschhoek
the fading summer
briefly signals
goodbye
in glowing
glimpses of green

at the Lit Fest
we sweat;
pens scratching
at the membrane
that separates
I
from
Am Writing

and we too thirst
for an overnight spurt

© Sara Dias

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Daar’s ‘n kommerklip in my skoen:
trap ek verby ‘n toiingskind
voel die klip in my Guccis
so groot soos ‘n ghoen

Daar’s kommerkrummels in my bed:
ek woel in nagmerries
van beenskraal kinders
met vlieë om die oë besmet

© Sara Dias 2008

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lazy summer sun
faces eager autumn moon:
i shine silver-gold

© Sara Dias

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‘n laat-somer son
deel die dag
met ‘n haastige
herfs maan:

ek gloei warm goud
aan my een kant,
en koel silwer
aan my ander;
en ek skitter
in die stralespel
van dié twee magsfere

© Sara Dias

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a late-summer sun
shares the sky
with an eager
autumn moon:

i glow warm gold
on my right,
and cool silver
on my left,
and i am glorious
in the combined radiance
of such powers

© Sara Dias

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gebuk onder die gewig
van ‘n mensemassa droom,
struikel politieke poue
oor mekaar se pronkvere
en raak verstrik
in leë beloftes.

© sara dias

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Rocked in the riptide
of the death of my father,
wave-tossed and churned
in that heedless harbour,
I tear at the binds
of that storm-wracked port

Slipping free
from the bollards
of that heaving quay,
I leave; scudding on waves
of vast possibility
And I think: what sport!

© sara dias

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our shadows
slip through
the flimsy facades
of our beliefs

to settle
in true colour,
untainted by tones
of Yours and Mine:

in stark silhouette
there is no gloss
on our greed,
no gold to gild
divisive writings,
no glamour in
flaming slogans;

there is no caste
in the shade we cast:

no heroes adorned
amidst the debris of war,
no manliness
in the purple of bruises,
or nobility
in the blues of beatings;

we cannot outrun
the mottled stains of sickness
or the wretched hues of hunger:

conjoined and blended,
our shadow soaks up
spatters of You and I
and steeps us all in mercy

© sara dias

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Vernal I

desperate young doves
dodging the cruel cawing crows -
virile spring is near

Vernal II

far from the city
i dwell in birdsung stillness:
spring’s chitter-chatter

© sara dias

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(Freedom Day)

fourteen summers on
we still stand in queues waiting …
for the promised land

© sara dias

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