Toe Lars Porsena na Rome marsjeer
In die kille oggenddou van die tyd
Hou drie man teen hom stand
Horatius, Lartius en Herminius
(maar meestal Horatius).
Alleen op die brug vir die lewens van die bang massa
Agter die mure van Roma Aeterna.
–
Toe Moeder Rusland na Afrika marsjeer
In die skreiende middaguur van die tyd
Hou ‘n paar troepe teen haar stand
Ons pa’s, ooms en amper pa’s
(dié wat nie teruggekom het nie).
Alleen in die bos vir die lewens van die bang massa
Agter die grense van Africa Auster.
–
Vir Horatius het hulle ‘n krans gegee
En hom singend deur die stad gelei.
Ons pa’s moet buite bly met niks meer
As ‘n eienaardige afkeur vir onverwagte vuurwerke nie.
Die tema wat jy hier aanspreek, lê my baie na aan die hart, veral omdat daar ‘n ongeskrewe kontrak onderteken is wat ons tot swyg verplig.
Indien ek mag, wil ek hier twee Engelse gedigte plak wat ek geskryf het vir diegene wat hulself met die lewendig-hou van die herinnering aan hierdie deel van ons geskiedenis bemoei. Daarmee wil ek nie die kollig van jou eie werk wegdraai nie. Ek wil dit bloot hier plaas as my eerlike reaksie op die tema en dit wat jy geskryf het.
… … …
Chronicler
Izak R. Crafford
For: Janco Minnaar
It still beats in our father’s hands:
memories of that war which now one would have us forget;
they paid with their blood, sacrificed their hearts pro patria. Thou wouldst not let
their sacrifice in silence be forgot’. Thy hands
move with love across the sheet, etching words, offering thy heart’s blood as gift;
chronicling their histories, their memories, their sufferings. For the flood is swift
which would wash away what they gave and their tales, even while their generation, battered, still stands,
bearing tacit witness to the raging.
… … …
Scrivener
A poem of Leofwine
Izak R. Crafford
For: Katrina van Oostrum
Bent over the scroll,
she etches her thoughts, her imaginings,
her resistance, writing of Pro Patria in a wardrobe laid,
bearing witness to that which they’d have us forget, eternalising what was ere the final toll.
She tells of the wrecking of venerable halls
and in the syllables she crafts, sign still of the language of long ago,
treasures which few would keep, histories they would not have us know.
Still tell these stories ancient walls,
but the wrecking balls will smash,
what now is here. But dust and ash
may remain and fading memories. Her words, eternal’ writ’, will summon vanished days with their lamenting calls.