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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