Down in the townships
The air is hot
On a September night,
In the half light
Of the decaying moon.

And if you shout
Your voice will be choked
By the darkness of fear,
For the air is dense
With putrid smells of
Previous nights’ dreams
Mingling with the day’s
Wasted labours
In the open sewers
Of black aspirations.

But when the cock strikes
The half night hour,
Between the darkness and time
The air is feverish with prayers
Of a silent people
Whose God is frightened
To hear their supplications
By day.

Say no more prayers
Black boy:
We have enough sadness
To last till
November eleven.