San Bushmen: First People
First
people of this ancient land
Last
exiles in the desert sand
To
you we owe our destiny
Our
struggle to be wild and free
We
call you Hunter, Bushmen, San
You
sowed the seeds of primal Man
A
gentler race we have not known
See
how your legacy has grown
For
millennia you lived in peace
In
harmony with nature’s beasts
With
tools of sinew, wood and stone
And
crafts of egg-shell, quill and bone
Hunting game and digging roots
Tapping trees and plucking fruits
Night
theatre around dancing fires
Click
singing under starry skies
You
chose the way of archers’ bow
Of
hunters’ grace - the art of flow:
To
give and take and see the whole
To
honour life and feed the soul
You
felt the weather in your bones
And
sensed earth’s subtle undertones
You
heard the stars whisper ‘tsau! tsau!’
And
rode the wind, we know not how
The
landscape generations trod
Recalls to us your Mantis god
Windswept by myths and scattered tales
Told
and retold on dusty trails
Then
came the time of racial blight
A
target for both black and white
The
hunter became hunted prey
Pre-dawning your extinction day
You
were the masters of the hunt
But
progress left your arrows blunt
And
tracking skills that reigned supreme
Are
all but lost in history’s stream
Yet
even now your soul still breathes
On
cave walls and in rocky cleaves
In
ochre, charcoal, mud and lime
Your
gallery now transcends time
We
see you smile in every face
Whose
eyes reflect that ancient place
In
wrinkled elders old as earth
Whose
wisdom joins us with our birth
First
people of this ancient land
If we
could only understand
Your
ancient ways still hold the key
To
setting ourselves truly free
Copyright 2005
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