Within my soul, within my mind,
There lies a place I cannot find.
Home of my heart. Land of my birth.
Smoke-coloured stone and flame-coloured earth.
Electric skies. Shivering heat.
Blood-red clay beneath my feet.

At night when finally alone,
I close my eyes and I am home.
I kneel and I touch, the blood warm sand
And feel the pulse beneath my hand
Of ancient times too old to name,
In an ancient land too wild to tame
 
How can I show you what I feel?
How can I make this essence real?
I search for words in sheer frustration
To try and form some explanation,
But how can heart and soul be caught
In one-dimensional written thought?
 
If love and longing is a “fire”
And man “consumed” by his desire,
Then this love is no simple flame
That mortal thought can hold nor tame.
As deep within the earth’s own core
The love of home burns evermore.
 
But what is home? I hear them say,
This never was yours anyway.
You have no birth right to this place,
Descendant from another race.
An immigrant? A pioneer?
You are no longer welcome here.
 
Whoever said that love made sense?
“I love” is an “imperfect” tense.
To love in vain has been mans fate
From history to present date.
I have no grounds for dispensation,
I know I have no home or nation.
 
For just one moment in the night
I am complete my soul takes flight.
For just one moment.... Then it’s gone
And I am once again undone.
Never complete. Never whole.
Just white skin covering an African soul.

Michelle Frost was born in Zimbabwe. She now lives in Scotland. Click here to see her published books.