Poetry

Sweet is the juice of Hanepoot grapes
where they hang golden in bunches in vineyards
when the Cape summer catch this world
when the hours move on to the late afternoon
and high in the air a dove flies
where it turns caught in the clear sky
and in this summer I get an urge
to move my life to Cape Town,
 
where I want to find You in the beautiful nature
in a world that astonishes and does blind.
 
On a military camp I heard from a grape farmer
who lived near to Stellenbosch
that the children of his workers are bewitched,
that his labourers were addicted from before birth and he was adamant,
as if with wine generations of farmers did exist in this way
and somewhere he had lost his humanity
did not want to hear of any complaint about this kind of thing,
but this wickedness moved me deeply.