The Stateless Flame
260 Words
In two thousand and eight, beneath a restless sky,
The sons of Vryheid gathered — their voices did not die.
The Freedom Front, with a steady hand and a heart of flame,
Carried forth the Afrikaner’s ancient name.
To the halls of UNPO they came — not in wrath, but in plea,
Seeking the right to simply be.
Not conquerors, not ghosts of old,
But a people yearning for their fold.
Stateless, yet not soulless — their prayers took flight,
Across the desks of nations clad in light.
“We are,” they said, “a people torn from place,
Yet bound in tongue, in song, in grace.”
Through years of silence, of mocked disdain,
They tilled the soil with faith and pain.
Each word, each hymn, each whispered vow,
A seed of nationhood — still growing now.
Their struggle is not loud with gun or gold,
But carved in courage, quiet and bold.
For recognition not in name alone,
But in the marrow — the right to home.
Still they rise, like veld grass after flame,
Holding high their fathers’ claim:
“We seek not power, nor worldly throne,
Only the right to call our own.”
And though the world may turn aside,
The Afrikaner walks with a steadfast stride.
For freedom is not granted, but sown —
And the stateless heart shall yet find home.
So the record stands — 2008, a mark in time,
Where hope was written in human rhyme.
A nation unborn, yet never undone —
Still marching beneath God’s burning sun.
https://unpo.org/member/afrikaners/
- Writer
