how long do we mean to last here?
we who have been wrecked against this lush continent
without ever indisputably landing in Africa
we in our American Colonial style houses
surrounded by parks and gardens
to escape the claim of the landscape
we who walk on kelims, talk in a Dutch dialect
listen to German lieder and read English poetry
who eat bacon and eggs for breakfast
hang out in western fashions
fly north past the continent for holidays
to drown in music and art galleries in our countries of origin
back home under Domsaitis’s Prussian paintings
seek consolation with Islay Malt in Finnish glasses

why not? Here we are after three centuries nothing more
than pieces of western curiosa

Down to my Last Skin
Antjie Krog

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