But an old man am I now, of opal eye & stone ear,
Rocking in progressed- first-world chair,
Filled with irrational, first- world fear,
No teeth, gnarled hands & very little hair.
Below my flat, the constant hum of traffic, voices
harsh as rock,
I go within my happy childhood head, to Africa far
away,
Where sounds are gentle, & where noises never
mock,
Where as a child, with the wind I would play.
I hear across the muddy river, the beat of old skin
drum,
The splash of glistening hippo, flapping wing of eagle
as he dips,
Soft chattering clicks of the Bushman in his ancient
tongue,
The satisfied beast at the waterhole as he delicately
sips.
The tiptoeing stillness of hunting lion, the heavy
drone of African bees,
The silent yelling of crackling sun, the heat kissed
dust as it sits & glisters,
The soft slithering of serpents, the unheard voices of
African trees,
Waterless thunder, storms that promise, but only
blisters.
The beasts that roar, that howl, screech, hunt &
maul,
The wind making love to the soft dusty breeze,
I hear it as a the child I was, I hear every echo, I
hear it all,
The ancient drum calls, let me go now, I beg you Lord,
please.
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