Branded Impressions 🇱🇸🇿🇦
The voices of angst amidst inexplicable ecstasy, liberty in a time where that which was held in reverence is rewritten & passed off as History.
Upon every 15th where yearly ash is rested upon where still dew once defiantly stood, is a flickering shutter of aura of what was and yet still is.
An infectiously transient thought, neither bound nor seemingly noted, though its depth something; to have been spoken. Between likeness forged, from those that hail from the flight towards that hallowed summit.
Along that all too familar unsaddled path, towards the berth in both one and numbered places. The basis of claims of clans and creeds, suns and the fruits of each harvest's seed.
Woven intricately around the stars though still inevitably within reach. Is a song; that flows like freshly freed reins eager to be felt, by the gaze of those utterly swept.
Do you dare remain while your spirit yearns that gift, of flight amongst the clouds with your feet still firm upon rocks that tower over the endless rippling hills cast Ablue.
From distant shores, to rising altitudes let this still ring true... Let that spirit move you
A bold venture upon the creek, within the bowels of her peak to seek one's feet to the dance of advancement and retreat.
Upon the feat of the descending morning star.
Towards the 8th degree upon the cusp from where her firm reign begins.
(image courtesy of Semonkong Lodge)
The mount recedes, encroaching towards the rapid currents known to bleed.
Through Slavic means these are the bearers of light forged from these heights on nights that mimic the endless flight, her suns sight.
His share remains that which lies beneath her coveted cup. The guiding wind along the staff that guards the flock upon a canvas vastly present in the past and stock.
The rivers guide from where famines tread familiarly bronzed faces of that sky.
The mounted stride of clans unfixated by time or restless tides upon the rise.
In tune with such news, the winds of change were but a case of deja vu for the nation coined the few.
Deemed abstruse for a strangely forged path ensued ensured those who followed bemoaned of a clan perpetually before the queue.
For her might was not without the contentious view.
She remains the constellation discernible beyond the glare of day and the bloom of blue. The roots and shore, the chalice and that which must surely flow.
The guardian of that which resides within, the sparse and dense; the endless Palace and the sands within every man's given stance.
A symmetry between the distinct and visual precinct beyond the conventional focus.
The embolding crease held upon boulders fashioned from wise shoulders of the older.
Towers draped in the escape of stoic stanzas in conflict with premeditated moments of poems and visual odes sheared from the hide of a life long thought to be left behind.
An Existence before and beyond the wire.
The path beholden to the faithful rider. The strange transit between the past and the reminiscentedly imminent.
Portraits of the suspended, the reoccurring remnants, a likeness recalled and restored.
The scenic scent of nostalgia paired with the indisputable hint of hope, the unconstrained wild air of past heirs.
The allure of off color magenta chucks on a stalwarts heels remains reminiscent of the struggles yet still to come.
The pupils of the forgotten tasked upon the righteous fight soured by the lore of false glory and ill gotten gain.
The Game was never beholden to names of those coyingly distant to the repurposed vein. The Stream from which the masses pleaded for a space but in vain.
Theirs a story only applicable to the condition of the native remade a beast of burden, the contemporary reserve of unwanted labor, only written upon ancient scripture as the innately depraved.
The wild unearthed guests upon treasures only the west were fit to consume. Or so the only permitted odes of old go of those who's place they assumed.
Buried beneath the toil and tombs of false idols the promise of each generation is but a stuttered bloom. From where the blind led the walking toward the precipice of damnation and doom.
The cost of civilization remains the stolen artefacts they furnished upon mother and fore fathers land to make room for their zoo and occupied coup to loot so as to commence offerings to strange stowaway roots. Reinforced with burning metal fire and stomping boots. The last rites were the natives rights.
Rest in flight. The plight continues through you and the pebbles of tablets spilled and languages diluted slightly.
Take your page to the stage with Refiloe Fifi Molibeli Woods.
The key to unlock that hello & wow in the next wardrobe on show
Imagery courtesy of @Sello_Majara (IG-OG) visit the Major Studios site below for more.
The Frenzy presents a safe haven for the artistically inclined eager to manifest the threaded sketchs trapped within the Palace of the mind, a vocational crash course fitting for closeted fingers and the divine eye.
A vibrant studio from where one's talents can organically grow.
The stage that presides the runaway, the steps taken to unveil the glow from where the chatter of endless flashing shutters roam.
The purest home of an artist on the go.
The Textile Kingdom remains the perfect place for such dreams to be so.
🅰️🇱🇸 the melodic sounds of Summer Live from Lesotho
Mosoenko o thato ¦ yeah we do too much 🎙️🔥
Imagery courtesy of @Don_Zbiano (IG-OG)
The rise of Don Zbiano is reminiscent of a long overlooked golden era among the descendants of Kings.
The crossroads between Aranda and Chuck Taylors, the iconic Golf 1 and the proficiency of the horseman with the affinity for the track from their tyres still do sing.
Monna ua Mosotho and the art of raps stretch as far back to the founder and further.
The coded odes of experiences canvassing the length and breadth of distant lands from the standing of a seasoned voyager.
The links below lead to the HD clips shot and directed by the House of Brutal Saint 🎥🔥
A progressive Black Female farmer empowering men & women in her community through innovatively sustainable farming techniques. Feeding the nation through greens.
Imagery courtesy of Marigold Farms, Johannesburg South Africa.
There remains a garden no more wholesome than her renowned greens. A legacy too stark to be a dream.
A place after the maker's own heart, not too far from the ravine. Where prayer is sought in soil and grown from faithful toil.
This remains the work of a Queen.
Restoring life to what was bare, her basket overflows and garners persistent stares. For theirs is a hope from hunger and dispair. Patrons of truth their glow emits the most unmistakable glare.
The tree from which the forsaken voyage in desperate reach, of the ear of those who ploughed and remain eager to teach.
A vision too blight to conform to niche. Swelling words carry the praise of seasonal birds among those from whom their path lies the pews of what they preach.
A house of no bell, the parishioners and their neck all of one speed. All destined to lead.
The story of a wandering fellow amidst the smog of exhausts and clouded features 🚶🏾💇🏾♂️💇🏾♀️
Imagery courtesy of @thereporterls & @manongPinki (Twitter)
No denying the dying, grey beardedly creased children upon life support, shifting sands the grand plans give way to panic and the reach of the iron hand.
Haunting threats weaving through science and the piance of a gambit on the other side of that dogged tie.
A Roman's policy, ladder up toward the crown. The birds breathe freely still though their famine now relatable, plantations and fields reimagined a cubicle.
The swelling urgency in grounded shoulders remains essential. The infamous White collar scheme, devoutly independent daily toils partitioned and mortalized by the seam.
As the smoggy clouds of festive funfare cleared, back to the lines toward salvation purchased in debt handed out for limbs and soil or so it seems.
The voices of the trenches not unseen.
Arbitrary crosses allotted. An ancient ode of the unguarded yet hallowed, the truest understanding of the greatest test.