I sit in a world with crucified colours,
But O my people,
I have a rainbow gleaming in my heart,

The wind shrieks and scratches at my hopes,
But O my people,
I keep alive the flame of my dreams,

Death combs cold air through my hair,
But O my people,
I am content and nourish my fears with Life,

War has stormed through my house and lands,
But O my people,
In my arms I cuddle the seeds of a new day.

He was born under sun soaked skies,
In the land of dawn’s rolling mountains,
But this was home here and now,
He was British,
He loved the flavours of his community,
And he inhaled the scent of this multi-coloured nation.

For over seventy years he walked from home to work,
And from work to home, a stone’s throw from a school,
He walked through these happy and silent streets,
He walked that same journey five times each day
To offer up his love and his prayers,
And to give thanks for the daily bread he baked.

Then…

One dark night of the soul,
As he left his local mosque,
And as he neared the safety of his home,
Three infernal stabs came from the back,
Deep, the blade slashed hard and it slashed deep,
Grandfather, father, husband… no more.

He was buried under sun soaked skies,
In the land of green lilting hills,
This was home here and now,
Every speck on the crowded horizon is a human,
The sun’s heat incinerates their hopes and tears,
And the soil wept for justice of a gentle soul.

The kingdom of my life is no more,
My hopes are cobwebbed with silence,
My life frozen between worlds,
Solace long ago abandoned me.

The birds of desolation now flock to me,
They peck my mind with beaks wet with lies,
And they scratch into my heart
And build nests of needles and despair.

My eyes see the orbs of dead dreams
And shards of paranoia wrinkle my face,
Madness twists and wriggles into my mouth,
It ripples with emotions etched by infernal ink.

I rage with the hunger without reason,
My sons nourish the fire in my stomach,
My daughters I have bargained to fill my drink,
My soul... I know not where it has escaped.

Tonight,
As Nelson Mandela fights for his life,
Our TV screens are smeared with Prince Philips' ill health.

Tell me true,
Of the two who has done more for world peace
And for his fellow travellers who journey through this life?

Two men,
One rich and royal and stained with bullet powder
And the other poor yet rich with the jewels of integrity.