in some pre-tempest testament of social status quo, the winds gathering,
thrusting furious against the walls of the black school where the black students learn
the knobby knees of students knocking ungovernable,
up all night and the night before making plans for this day
somewhat tired, but not wanting to rest, never wanting to rest

and when the police arrived to contain the situation
thirsty black men hung chants of Morena Boloka Sechaba sa heso! in the skies
words that lit the people afire
words that exploded like canisters of tear-gas
words that pierced the heart like four random bullets shot into the crowd

in the west we say things like you are a human, you can't live like this
but when you are forced to use one arm to signal peace
and the other to carry a young boy called Hector Petersen
who is 13 and covered in blood from the storm,
redemption lies in the burning of a Bantu council office or a jagged piece of the parking lot

children made of glass shattered by a camouflage gavel and machine gun bullets
flashes of taxis with back seats of butchered brown youths
riot control vehicles rising like hippos from the sea of asphalt,
one day they will apologize to the bodies of students
young hearts that never wanted to rest, buried in their school uniforms