The child is not dead 
The child lifts his fists against his mother 
Who shouts Afrika ! shouts the breath 
Of freedom and the veld 
In the locations of the cordoned heart

The child lifts his fists against his father 
in the march of the generations who shouts Afrika ! shout the breath 
of righteousness and blood 
in the streets of his embattled pride

The child is not dead not at Langa nor at Nyanga 
not at Orlando nor at Sharpeville 
nor at the police station at Philippi 
where he lies with a bullet through his brain

The child is the dark shadow of the soldiers 
on guard with rifles Saracens and batons 
the child is present at all assemblies and law-givings 
the child peers through the windows of houses and into the 
hearts of mothers 
this child who just wanted to play in the sun at Nyanga is 
everywhere 
the child grown to a man treks through all Africa

the child grown into a giant journeys through the whole world 
Without a pass

*Taken from http://poetryblogroll.blogspot.com.au/2015/12/the-living-dead.html