The Landing_(1652_1700)
936 Words
I. The Edge of the World
In the age of sail, when tempests roared,
And kingdoms fought for spice and sword,
A lonely cape beneath the sky,
Stood waiting where the seas ran high.
Beyond the reach of Europe’s hand,
A whisper called — a promised land.
A place of refuge, storm, and fear,
Where East and West would anchor near.
The Dutchmen sailed through the ocean’s foam,
To find a garden far from home.
Three ships they bore — Dromedaris,
Reijger, Goede Hoop — their star is
A cross of faith, their dream of peace,
A fort to serve, a land to lease.
And Jan van Riebeeck, stern of face,
First set his boot upon this place.
April’s breeze was cool and wide,
When 1652’s tide
Brought Holland’s flag to Table Bay,
And history found her voice that day.
No choir sang, no trumpet blew,
Just gulls above, the sea’s deep blue.
Yet something stirred — a seed was sown,
That one day would become its own.
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II. The Garden of Hope
The fort was raised of mud and clay,
A fragile dream in the sun’s harsh rays.
They planted seeds and prayed for rain,
For mercy in the barren plain.
The Khoikhoi watched from the mountain’s crest,
Their hearts unsure, their patience is tested.
Strangers came with steel and creed,
And traded beads for milk and reed.
Van Riebeeck wrote by lantern’s gleam,
Of hunger’s ache and freedom’s dream.
He longed for home, yet saw a spark —
A light that flamed against the dark.
“This land,” he wrote, “is stern and wild,
Yet in its soul, the earth is mild.
God grant this soil to bear our seed,
To feed our faith, our toil, our need.”
From Europe’s wars and hunger’s yoke,
Came servants, sailors, farmers, folk.
They built their homes near Table’s Hill,
With iron hearts and iron will.
No prince would rule, no crown command,
But faith and fire and calloused hand.
A people born from dust and flame,
Would one day bear a nation’s name.
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III. The Meeting of Worlds
The Khoikhoi grazed by the river’s bend,
Their cattle proud, their lives unpenned.
They met the Dutch with wary eyes,
Like eagles watching foreign skies.
At first, they bartered — milk for bread,
And friendship’s fragile thread was spread.
But greed grew fast, as greed will do,
And trust was lost — the skies turned blue.
For when the fences staked the plain,
The Khoikhoi rose, but all in vain.
Their cries were swept by the ocean’s roar,
Their cattle gone, their spirits sore.
And thus began the long divide,
Where mercy failed, and tears would bide.
A shadow stretched across the land,
Where strangers’ dreams outgrew the sand.
Yet still, the settlers’ hearts were torn —
Between their faith and what was sworn.
They prayed each night for grace to see,
That freedom comes with empathy.
But time was harsh, and hunger’s pain
It would make the kind grow cold again.
And in that forge of loss and need,
The Afrikaner took his creed.
---
IV. The Forge of Identity
They spoke in tongues of Dutch descent,
But Africa changed their accent bent.
The wind and veldt, the mountain’s song,
Would shape their words and make them strong.
Their children grew with eyes of flame,
Untamed by Europe’s cultured frame.
No longer Dutch, nor wholly free,
They were becoming what they’d be.
They rode the plains, they broke the ground,
They learned the lion’s fearless sound.
The stars their map, the veld their bed,
By faith and flint their lives were led.
The women wove by candlelight,
The men stood guard through endless night.
And every dawn, the sun would say,
“You are of Africa today.”
Their psalms rose high, their hearts were sure,
Their spirits proud, their hands were pure.
Though lonely, rough, and slow to grow,
They found in toil a sacred glow.
And Jan van Riebeeck’s hope took root —
Through hardship’s sting, through hunger’s fruit.
From that fort beside the sea,
Was born with a will to simply be.
---
V. The Faith and the Fire
They built their churches, small and plain,
Where psalms like thunder met the rain.
They read from Bibles, leather-bound,
And found in them their moral ground.
The Sabbath calm, the farmer’s creed,
The steadfast hand in time of need.
A people carved from storm and prayer,
Who found their strength in what they’d bear.
They called their children names of grace,
And dreamed of God’s appointed place.
They felt His voice in wind and flame,
And praised His will through joy and shame.
For though their world was harsh and wide,
They walked with angels by their side.
And from their trials, fierce yet pure,
A faith was born that would endure.
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VI. The Blood and the Soil
Each field they ploughed was not their own,
But won through sweat on stony loam.
Each storm they faced, each drought they braved,
It was proof that all their souls had been saved.
And when the harvest blessed the year,
They sang with voices loud and clear:
“This land is ours, by toil and pain,
By God’s own hand, by sun and rain.”
Their roots sank deep, the rivers ran,
They knew they’d never be just “man.”
They were the soil, the sky, the flame,
The land itself had learned its name.
No longer guests, nor foreign breed,
They found in Africa their creed.
And though the years would test and bend,
The Afrikaner’s soul would not end.
- Writer
