We have not seen him.
We have not seen Mandela,
In the place where he is,
In the place where he is kept.
I am not a colour, nor shall I ever be.
For I am a blank page;
Though every second I colour myself in,
With the paintbrush and pallet of life.
No one can hold my paintbrush,
No one can seize my pallet,
But I see their pages and I understand.
I understand why they want to take my freedom,
For they have taken their own.
But I must forgive them.
Otherwise my canvas will start to shriek like theirs
And my page will no longer be a myriad of colours,
But it will twist up and die.
I am defiant.
I will always have my paintbrush and pallet.