On autumn streets, in thinning shade,
Deep gutters shine with mountain water;
And on the stones that bridge them, staid
Hesperides in orchard clutter,
Mulattresses sweep off the leaves.
Mulattoes, gutters, arbors, gables,
Each year re-create, as the sheaves
Create elsewhere autumnal fables,
A true autumnal; add, each fall,
Bright days that face one harvest only,
Ripening toward no germinal
The sterile fruit transplanted vainly,
To harden seedless into gold,
And have, though all its taste be metal,
Such luster as will take and hold
And flatter, howsoever brutal,
The race whose fetish it becomes,
Until the mirror is the treasure;
Until the sallow image numbs
The blood’s response, and is the measure,
Prospect, and face of privilege;
A last apartness, finally cruel.
With all compassion numb, with each
Vain myth inbred beyond renewal,
Apartheid stares in classic pride.
Youth, knowing what the mirror utters,
Will not hear now, on either side,
Time running out in darkened gutters.
Stellenbosch, 1960
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