Spark

With open eyes and open ears, 
To the wise the truth appears.
In all its grim and dark despair, 
In all its glory - bold and fair.

Deceit may shroud the far green land, 
But not for long, the truth will stand.
A forgotten beacon set ablaze, 
Fuelled by courage at the end of days.

To burn the thickening fog of lies, 
And focus the gaze of watchful eyes
Upon the fiery light of hope, 
Away from tendrils that slither and grope.

Under the beacon's broadening light, 
Fear will falter, fail, take flight, 
To reveal a world for all to see.
A single spark could set us free.

Wilgerlied

Woedend sal sy wortel skiet.

Die Wilger grawe uiters diep.

Weinig sal die ou siel faal.

Duister kennis - Moedertaal.

Bas en blaar; grond en sand.

Koue water byderhand.

Op die oewer - langs die riet.

In die stilte sing die Wilgerlied.

Herfstoneel

'n Buiterand van somergroen
Skets 'n blaar van die herfs seisoen.

'n Sonnige geel - heuning en hooi,
Kneusings van pers, oranje en rooi.

Die wind wil byt en die bome bloei, 

'n Hele reënboog;

Die landskap verhoog.

Tot die laaste druppel kleur;

'n Roesbruin blaar 

Breek, val neer.

Hoor hoe kraak hy onder voet.

Die herfs seisoen is bitter-soet.

Eternity

There does not come a time,
For that time is ever here.

Unnoticed, it stalks in plain sight.
A candle in the sun.
The faintest of light.
A shadow trailing darkness
In the blackest of night.

An impossible future floats,
Seducing the wandering eye;
Tempting our credulity.
A mirage in the empty sky.

Once you stop to glean, 
Not what would be or what has been,
You will find that time and comprehend.
You will grip that moment and finally see

The trappings of eternity.

Bound

My bonds are broken.
My spirit flies,
Through love and loss,
Beneath the skies.

My ropes are cut.
My blood runs free,
Through rivers and veins,
To colour the sea.

With newfound freedom,
My body soars
Through clouds above
To distant shores.

Though bonds are broken
My mind does question;
Is this reality,
Or merely suggestion?

Maloja

Nestled amidst the mountains cold
beneath an ageless sky, 
where rolling hills meet ancient woods, 
where darkness goes swiftly by.

There you'll find an eternal spring, 
the well which won't run dry,
fed by waters pure and true, 
where sunlight lifts the morning dew.

In these sacred lands of old
our spirit finds the way,
to lift our gaze to the mountain top. 
To see this place anew.

Weskus Asem

Langgras klou aan geroeste doringdraad,

langs 'n vetplant see van seepgroen en staal. 

Op die klipstoep bak die oggend son, 

waar die tawwe rottangstoel verweer,

terwyl die Weskus branders roep, 

en die skoon wind ruik aan fynbos soet.