I pack my room, I headed... Nowhere

Poem by Marc Aupiais

The music of my ancestors plays,
The French artist,
The journalist who helped cause a massacre,
The German who guarded a bridge against Germany,
In That, Great War!

And I pack my room up,
I throw out bit by bit of my past,
I chuck out my hopes,
Dreams,
Wisdoms on Post-its!
Dreams I once held dear!

And as my bookcase becomes sparse,
And bit by bit I ..
Throw out my past!

I do not look expectant or with hope ..
I do not pack to leave ..
But only to clear space ..
To make this!
My home place ..
Bearable!

And though there is Ireland, France, Germany within!
This is my home!
This is my home!
This is their home!
My ancestors,
All but two dead!

And I stay within,
Light sitting on me!
From my quaint new reading tool!

And in sorrow and joy,
I pack up my hopes,
Moving nowhere, I expect,

Never destined,
To be anyone of note,
Nor to need say, "no place... Like ... Home",
Nor to know even where Kansas is,
Though I know now,
Possibly not in Texas...

And I pack my stuff!
Silently!

Knowing I am unimportant,
And me, the world hardly needs ..

I pack my stuff,
To make space,
As I work again on living,

So hard in Africa,
When the European,
Is now the conquered!
And the world realises,
Little of the vengeful oppression,
And nothing of mentioning the laws,

As I sit and pack.
To make space for life ...
Again!

This is my Home!

Roodepoort,
Home!