Who would criticise Mandela...
Who has lost their small mind... to even think is thought crime;
criticism is for mortals; not the idol of madiba atop its pedestal.
Who would throw stones...
only the uncouth;
the imperfections of a giant not ours to peruse.
But you may imagine him patient,
soul on ice.
The years melting the prime of an unlived life.
He dreams
the death of apartheid,
while enduring hard time with equanimity.
Who belittles sacrifice..
Who dares query,
the crown of his achievement was fruit from a quandary...
True,
he did not orchestrate
his cage was ordained.
Such is fate,
but consider the feat:
to return home,
yet not return hate.
Truly a miracle,
the scoundrel emerged a global symbol.
Compassion in the flesh,
branded a deity.
Gold plated hearts are readily idolised.
Time again, speech is made divine on paper.
Surely his words are fit for scripture.
Mandela-ism;
may generations emulate him,
right down to his funky shirts.
Dare they whisper criticism...
measure pretence of virtue,
defending his name.
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