As our ancestors speak,
we hear their whispers,

deep in our South African night.

We hear them,
their hushed pleas,
and plaintive murmurs,

imploring us,

to listen, to hear,

to still the din of the day,

to feel caressed,
by the blanket of night.

As our ancestors whisper,
they wait,

for us to listen, to hear,
their songs of life,

rising from our soil,
healing our inner strife,

while hushing our fears,


wiping away,

our cascading tears