Editor, thanks for the poets’ column,

I'm here, still alive and no poet,

I just like to be on top, Editor:

clubs are at hand but I fight with lightning.

The year has passed, it's barely gone,

fireworks marked its passage,

raised voices welcomed the new,

coming in its fashion.

Now the old year's ended

we thank you, Well of maternal love,

for holding us all in times of peril

throughout the year,

in the world's hardships,

the people's want,

calamities that disrupt

our worship of God.

The year has passed bearing news

of nothing but persecution,

of everyone's behaviour:

all has been recorded.

On the plains they're stealing our cattle! Open and let me in!!

I'll sneak to my hole like a swallow

and all the sins of the old year

will be forgotten.

This year says, “These are my words;

tell your people I'm the one talking.

Now I'll restrain all teachings

leading you astray.”

Lord of all creatures, we implore you today,

we Africans look up to you,

please don't take our land from us

because of our wrongs.

In our distress and hunger,

in affliction, dressed in thongs,

in animosity and blood feuding,

arrive with a vision.

On the plains they're stealing our cattle,

which bear news of persecution.

To the judge's eyes upon us

how will it appear?

Will all these years pass by?

Will you mark time through this year too?

Even this burden you bear

is in the nature of things.

Come back this year, Greybeard of ours,

to turn all griefs away from us.

Look past the present, watch for the future

in the coming year.