Land of my Forefathers - Mathalea Ntaote

High in the bosom of snow-crowned mountains,
Where winds sing hymns only peaks know,
The valleys hold whispers of cattle bells,
Silent vow-taking spirits linger where my forefather’s graves lay.

Merino clutch to the dense promise of their wool,
Angora bleat under song of the shearer’s cruel scissors,
A cascading wool-fleece and a silky avalanche of mohair,
Memories of alpine meadows immortalized.
Each tangled strand, a threat of the woven tapestry of heritage.
Chronicles of a blanket destined for eternal trade.

Here in my forefather’s land, beneath my grandmother’s headstone
Resting bones, returned to creation.
We tell stories of walking graves;
Of cannibals that ate the founding fathers’ forefathers
Death has forgotten their shadows in history.
This is a resurrection.

We weep for the barren ground, pray for rain,
Prosperity will follow peace.
Chanting defiance, we strike white diamond from the mountain’s womb.
Rivers carve foreign stone hurried for the sea,
Ancestors’ rebirth.

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Mathalea Ntaote (21st century) Lesotho
Source: Writer's Space Africa October 2025