Beneath the Sunset Skies of Hope

Our strength, our dreams, our
finest years,
To halls of learning and
generations yet unborn.
We built tomorrow with quiet,
faithful hands,
Never imagining that our own
tomorrow
Would be a lifetime of waiting,
And yesterday a place of tears.
The years have gathered upon our
shoulders,
Like dust upon forgotten dreams,
Like wandering ghosts beneath the
mopane trees.
We taught the young to dream of
greatness,
To seek the truth, to stand with
pride.
Yet now, beneath the fading sunset
skies,
Our own dreams lie scattered in the
dust,
Their dying embers struggling
against the night.
Some lie sick, without the means to
heal,
While others count their last coins
To put a little food on the
table.
And some, too proud to beg,
Have learnt to drown their sorrows,
Behind a weary smile,
Over a glass of Tennessee whiskey.
We buried friends who waited beside
us,
Who once believed that justice
would arrive.
Their names have faded from the
corridors,
Their voices silenced by the grave.
But the promises that kept them
waiting
Remain, unanswered, among the
living.
Can those in authority truly hear
us,
Beyond the speeches and applause?
Can they hear the quiet weeping
Of those whose dignity has been
stripped away?
Can they look into the eyes of the
forgotten
And say that all is well?
We ask not for your generosity,
Nor riches from the nation's gold.
We ask not for pity or favours,
Nor charity wrapped in gracious
words.
We ask for what our labour earned,
For the dignity of our remaining
years,
Before our trembling hands grow
still and cold.
What worth is service to a nation
If those who served are left behind?
What honour lives in solemn
promises
That follow faithful servants to
their graves?
What conscience sleeps so
peacefully
While those who built the future
Are denied the comfort of their
final days?
And still we wait.
And still we wonder.
How many sunsets must we watch?
How many friends must we surrender
to the place of many crosses?
How many prayers must vanish into
silence
Before somebody remembers that we
are still here?
We were once the hands that served,
The minds that guided,
The shoulders upon which others
rose.
Now we are the ageing faces,
That the passing years have made
invisible.
Our children watch us grow weary,
Our grandchildren ask why we are
sad,
And we struggle to explain,
Why a lifetime of honest service,
Has ended in such sorrow.
Remember us while we still breathe.
Time is a debt no wealth can pay,
And death will not postpone its
day.
Do not bring us flowers when we are
gone,
Do not praise our service when in
the place of many crosses,
Do not speak of honour over silent
coffins
When justice could have reached us
while we lived.
So hear this cry within the
silence,
Beneath the darkening skies of
hope.
Let justice reach the hands that
laboured,
Before the final light grows dim,
Before our homes become houses of
mourning,
Before our final residence
Becomes a place of many crosses.
For hope is not an endless river,
Nor patience an eternal flame.
Even the strongest hearts grow
weary,
Even the brightest embers die.
And a nation that forgets its
servants,
That lets them perish waiting for
their due,
Must one day face the silence of
their graves
And answer for its shame.
Fiat iustitia, ruat caelum.
(Let justice be done, though the
heavens fall)


