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Geboorte
Ek slaan my oë op na die berge
maar dis in die klowe en die grotte
en die primordiese holtes waar
ek haar vind — ewig
tuis in die donker, klam
rotssome waar smarraggroen
mos haar lippe omlyn —
sy fluister ‘n sus-sagte belofte,
‘n herinnering van toe sy alle lewe
in die donker binneste van
haar liggaam gedra het tot die
uur van die skepping.
Ek soek haar in die laagtes en
die leegtes waar ek haar vereer
die bulte en die ryp rondings
waar ek haar loflied sing —
Heilig! Heilig! Heilig!
O, Liggaam waaruit elke liggaam spruit!
Heilig! Heilig! Heilig!
Goot Primordiese Holte!
Heilig! Heilig! Heilig!
Moeder! Modder! Aarde!
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Birth
I cast my eyes up to the mountains
but it is in the crevices and the caves,
the primordial hollows where
I find her — eternally
abiding in the dark, moist,
rock seams her velvety lips
outlined with emerald green moss —
she whispers a lullabyed promise,
a reminder of when she carried all life
in the dark interior of
her body until the
hour of creation.
I seek her in the lowlands and
the voids where I honor her,
the knolls and the ripe swellings
where I sing her praise song —
Holy! Holy! Holy!
Oh, Body from which all bodies sprung!
Holy! Holy! Holy!
Great Primordial Hollow!
Holy! Holy! Holy!
Mother, Mud, Earth!
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