Wednesday, 9 May 2012


Your skin is the Kalahari sand,
Stretched tight across your ancient mind.
Eyes as dry as marula seeds,
You weep a million starving stones,
And silently tell a tale from your aeoned hand.

You´re the oldest man upon this earth,
Dressed in dusty wrinkled crepe.
The bow & arrow, your only friends,
Your prayer of clicks goes unheard.
Why are you here? What are you worth?

The sky your God, the scrub your bed,
You talk in tongues of beast & bird.
Dry tongue, dry eye, dry skin, dry life.
Beneath crackling sun you live, you die.
It matters not where you lay your weary head.

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