May Miller

Possessed of this city, we are born Into kinship with its people. Eyes that looked upon Cool magnificence of space, The calm of marble, And green converging on green In long distances, Bear their wonder to refute Meaningless dimensions, The Old-World facades. The city is ours irrevocably As pain sprouts at the edge of joy, As grief grows large with our years. New seeds push hard to topsoil; Logic is a grafted flower From roots in a changeless bed. Skeleton steel may shadow the path, Broken stone snag the foot, But we shall walk again Side by side with others on the street, Each certain of his way home.

Mankind, Surrender a fancied dream of birth. Accept science of recent years. To date, Africa marks first form of man; here in dust most recent proof lies. History here emerges bone by bone. Dig—dig—dig. May Africa reward the search if only through eroded bones. Fit them together; date them. Shape the skeleton of earliest man. This is history. Sing another song in vain. In vain contrive a different tune. Dust will prevail. It always does.