Homeland-Michelle Frost

Within my soul, within my mind, there lies a place I cannot find.

Home of my heart, land of my birth, smoke coloured stone, flame coloured earth.

Electric skies, shivering heat, blood red clay beneath my feet.

At night, when finally alone, I close my eyes and I am home.

I kneel and touch the blood warm sand and feel the pulse beneath my hand.

Of ancient life, too old to name, in ancient land too wild to tame.

How can I show you what I feel?

How can I make this essence real?

I search for words in dumb frustration, and try to form some explanation.

But how can heart and soul be caught in one-dimensional written thought?

If life and longing are a fire and man consumed by his desire

Then this love is no simple flame that mortal thought can hold or tame.

As deep within the Earths own core, the love of home burns evermore.

For what is home, I hear them say

This never was yours anyway.

You have no birthright to this place, descended from another race!

An immigrant? A pioneer? You are no longer welcome here.

Whoever said that love made sense?

I love is an imperfect tense.

To love in vain has been mans fate, from history to present date.

I have no grounds for dispensation, I know I have no home or nation.

For just one moment in the night, I am complete, my soul takes flight.

For just one moment, then it's gone.

And I am once again undone.

Never complete, never whole,

White skin and an African Soul.