An African Soul

I found this poem in Anthony's memoirs, and i really liked it. it's about, as far as i can tell, the identity of white South Africans (particularly Afrikaners).

Now i don't know much about South Africa's history (something I'm trying to fix by reading "South Africa: The First Man, The Last Nation" - A book that, if you are interested in history at all, you should read, because it has a very unbiased portrayal of South Africa's past), so i can't pass judgment on any particular group for playing any role in the darker parts of this country's past. I simply really enjoyed this poem because it deals with the concept of identity. Something i truly find interesting.

What makes us who we are? The place of our birth? the colour of our skin? our family's past? or the culture to which we live in?

Anyways, now I'm rambling and close to losing my point, so I'll just leave you with the poem and the website on which i found an electronic copy (Go here). Though i found it in my boss' memoirs first.

An African Soul
(Homeland By 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 and 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 an ancient life too old to name,
In an 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
To try and form some explanation,
But how can heart and soul be caught
In one-dimensional written thought?

If love 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 earth's own core
The love of home burns evermore.

But what is home? I hear them say,
This never was yours anyway.
You have no birthright to this place,
Descendant 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 man's 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.