By Michelle Frost
Within my soul, within my mind, there lies a place I cannot find. Home of my heart. Land of my birth. Smoke-colored stone and flame-colored earth. Electric skies. Shivering heat. Blood-red clay beneath my feet.
At night when finally alone, I close my eyes and I am home. I kneel and touch the blood-warm sand and feel the pulse beneath my hand. Of an ancient life too old to name, in an ancient land too wild to tame.
How can I show you what I feel? How can I make this essence real? I search for words in dumb frustration to try and form some explanation, but how can heart and soul be caught in one-dimensional written thought?
If love and longing are a "fire" and man "consumed" by his desire, then this love is no simple flame that mortal thought can hold or tame. As deep within the earth's own core the love of home burns evermore.
But what is home? I hear them say, this never was yours anyway. You have no birthright to this place, descendant from another race. An immigrant? A pioneer? You are no longer welcome here.
Whoever said that love made sense? "I love" is an "imperfect" tense. To love in vain has been man's fate from history to present date. I have no grounds for dispensation, I know I have no home or nation.
For just one moment in the night I am complete, my soul takes flight. For just one moment... then it's gone and I am once again undone. Never complete. Never whole. White skin and an African soul.