Friday, 12 June 2015


My son, you are the heir to all my wealth & riches,

But nothing I leave you is of golden sewn stitches,

No jewels, no gemstones, not silver nor bright gold,

There´s no money in banks, nor grand properties old.


But son, I will leave you treasures so very worthwhile,

Far older than Amazonia, Taj Mahal, or wild wide Nile,

I shall bestow upon you, all that´s un-seen & un-scribed,

Your inheritance my son, shall be the lost secrets of tribes.


I shall leave you old stories, tales, poetry & long gone songs,

Secret messages hidden, within voices of drums & old gongs,

The magic of spices, & curative power of mountain top herbs,

You will have too, the languages of beasts & pretty wild birds.


When I am gone, you will be endowed with all that´s unseen,

With all that´s not understood, & of everything that has been,

Not the wealth of all men, that will merely cause you strife,

I shall bequeath to you my son, the very enigma of this life.

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