It is the very soul within that pulsates the tales of my forefathers;
That draws the nostalgia of golden age simplicity in Sophiatown’s blues.
It is the very soul that bears the acidic wounds of identities lost in the millennium
We bear the burden of reparation from this malicious predator posed as modernism
As we are not the bystanders of our own destinies; rather the locksmith’s of our ignorance
Clasped in the palms of our hands to scourge the possibilities of a change...

Join hands in the ring of doubt and marry your senses for logical progress,
Through the ribbons of heritage that fixate your wavering life harness
So you can travel to unknown realms that paint you a portrait of a comrade’s cry
Tell their story in ample loads and hum the tune of a sombre fireside lullaby
Until you may empathize with the trail of our blood stained freedom...