The penny whistle begins to weep
in my dreams: when was it I heard it
for the first time, and now I cannot silence it.
It weeps, monotonously, like the water
running over the stones in Jonkershoek Valley.
It weeps like the wind: it weeps in the distance.
I weeps for all whistlers who have died
in the long years of hunger and birdshot.
It weeps in the sand that has been drenched
with the blood of passers-by
when the bombs exploded
in bars and churches.
It weeps in the trees, it weeps with the birds,
it weeps in my dreams climbing the scales
of sorrow and madness.