Friday, 13 September 2013


He lives in thatched hut, deep within the African bush,
Where beasts die of thirst & vultures swoop in a whoosh,
His hut is dark & hot & smells of roots, herbs & bloody pelts,
And in his three legged cauldron, his potions he duly smelts.

Hanging from wooden rafters, are the gruesome animal parts,
He chants words of magic, over bones, livers & pulsating hearts,
Ancient potions & unguents, mixed with entrails, reeking of smoke,
While frantically dancing round his fire & to old spirits he invokes.

With all his wild chanting, prancing & trancing, he tosses old bones,
Calling to his ancient ancestors, buried beneath old rocks & stones,
With the sacrifice of poor beasts, he swears oaths & pleads to the Gods,
For the powerful magical mixing of herbs, from the earth´s given clods.

He lifts bestowed curses, with dried hide, claw, mighty talon & horn,
Massaging old wrinkled bodies with balsams of old powdered thorn,
Telling the young, for love, to imbibe, poison & hideous snake´s blood,
For stings & bites, to rub in well, the fat of hippo & the delta´s black mud.

 To call rare rain, he rattles pods of baobab & old desert´s singing seeds,
Collected & gathered at full moon, by the place of the crocodile´s reeds,
And when I visit the old witchdoctor´s hut, deep in the dark African bush,
Seeking my future, looking up I see, the old vulture swoop with a whoosh.

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