She rose, interrupting her 3am sleep, <br />To place a rough stone on the pavement <br />In the long queue of stones, marking her mother’s place <br />In the morning line for government bread <br /> <br />She stands in pink at the school-bus stop <br />Faded satchel on her back, her eyes contained <br />By some slight terror of the daily world <br />Of the diesel clouds and traffic waves <br /> <br />Tending the family stall, she chases the flies <br />From small triangles of garlic flowers <br />On the metal-lined shelves of the mercado <br />As soldiers and inspectors deal their gains <br /> <br />On the evening southern Kalahari plain <br />Her brother said, “there are 17 white stones”. <br />He was jumping from one smooth top to another – <br />The stones that ford the stream at Kanye <br /> <br />I met him playing on the day <br />When 42 young and grown children were slain <br />By a death lottery apartheid raid, an act <br />That histories would rapidly disdain. <br /> <br />The soiled dictator rules out his contenders <br />On general terms of fear and pain. <br />Would there be a lifetime <br />By which this deal was altered - <br />And something close to childhood came?<br /><br />Frank Bana<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/terms-of-childhood/
