A Statesman: Then And Now Poem by Gert Strydom

He stands on the podium
with his hat
in his hand
pressed against his chest

on the border with Angola
in his country
(as he still rules
over South West Africa)

and his bare head shines
under the bright Africa sun
where he himself was born

and Ratel armoured cars,
tanks, rocket launchers
and artillery drive past in convoys
back from Angola
to get a salute from him.

He stands like a giant
alone against dark Africa
will nuclear devices
waiting ready in bombs

and missiles
for ballistic purposes
are being manufactured.

Later lump after lump
of sand
falls down in his grave
while a lost journalist
runs for photos around it

and he doesn’t any more know
what is happening
in his own country
and about thunderbolts
that falls from everywhere
on his people

and rumble ominous
above his grave,
not even about water flowing
above him in a rain stream
and every sunrise
that without equal
unfolds above him

and worms gnawing
patiently on his body
since every thing
fades for him to nothing.