Saturday, 1 September 2012


Grieving its loss and struggling with humiliation,
I am happy to see the end.
Increasing marginalisation,
The thing that will wake us.
To the marvellous,
To the danger,
To the confronting.

We are on foreign soil,
It is time to live as exiles.
To tell our stories,
And to sing our songs.
We must make our promises,
And must live like we believe.

For too long have we kept silent,
But now,
We cry,
We gasp,
We pant,
And something new is birthed.
- B. Wheatley

If I'm truthful most of the poetry I write is "found", in random words or the pages of a book or notes in a meeting, this poem was found in Chapter 1 of Michael Frosts book Exiles.

No comments: