Rolled in purrs and dusted in crisp consonants
With French flourishes.
It leaves honey on your tongue.
I can taste it.
Your fathers' names still line the streets
Cast in brass beneath a stone face that looks so much like you
And still your blood runs rooibos
And still you give "now" its magic names
And still you thrill to this beast-tramped veldt
Like the fathers of their fathers
Who first burned under this proud sun
And made it yours.