Pierneef, 'n Somersmiddag, Bosveld / A Summer Midday, Bushveld (1928)
Whereof one cannot speak, thereof one must be silent.—Ludwig Wittgenstein, Tractatus Logico-Philosophicus (1922)
Now silence is consent!
To which our hearts are bent.
Though it be heaven-sent,
It's never what we meant.
The past’s another country,
That rubric's famous too!
They do things different there—
The very things you rue.
We did what we were taught,
We bought the things we bought,
Our word was ever fraught.
We died for what we thought.
We feared what gave us fright
And hoped with all our might.
It didn’t help a bit.
We wore a cap; it fit.
Our grandkids think us fools,
They live by other rules.
We loved the life they spurn,
Which we aspired to earn.
They in their own turn
Will win their children’s scorn,
Long-lived, may live to mourn.
May wish they’d not been born.