Mandela – December 2013

I see you all from afar
As through a glass with imperfections
Filing sluggishly past the too ornate
Dark-wooded box in which I lie
Now finally in protracted death
In the amphitheatre where once
You crowned me

I see you look upon
My face paled now in bloodlessness
My alabaster hair frozen forever still
Your eyes searching for meaning
In my stillness
As if looking upon a saint
Or as I once looked upon
The frozen Lenin in his mausoleum
In Moscow begging response

I hear you now from afar
As if through the wall
Of the room next door
In a cheap motel
Your eulogies resonating
Through the cavities of the colonial
Building that briefly housed me
When I was king

I hear you but I wonder
Of whom you speak
Of what god, of what benevolent king
Of what saintly man of peace

Who lies in that gilded box?
Is it not me? A man
Sinner

Breaker of hearts
Soldier
Man of revolution
Red heart
Black skin

If I could speak
If these words could escape
This cold distance
I would tell you who I am
And ask that you honour me
If honour you must
Not through the facets that suit
Your blinkered beliefs
But through all that made me
A man who tried to do the right thing
And tried to do it well
Imperfect