Exotic & Erotic

She is exotic,
erotic,
a collection of dreams,
and mystical schemes.
She is adrenaline to my soul,
plays a mystical role,
in my life,
pierces my heart with a knife.
Yet no blood do I loose –
her mystique, is just to confuse.
When there you must participate,
no excuses to relate…
you are either a part,
or not a part of her heart.
You love her, must show her, your forlorn fate.
There’s no other land on earth, closer to heaven’s gate.
She is life, death,
first and last breath.
Yet she is loved by all,
every last desert and waterfall,
every deprived and hungry child,
every last creature, hunted, and wild.
They all appreciate and love this land,
whether sidewinder from below the sand,
or regal simba, from the eastern side,
sitting proud, with her pride.
They all love this wonderful place,
from whence came the human race.

I can only swoon when I think,
but then the dry, baking stink,
where water just does not exist,
where young stomachs have to resist
the yearning, desperation and fear,
year after year after year.
When the lack of rainy season
is the reason
for children leaving their cultures,
for the weak falling to vultures.
Where aggression is the only solution,
where corruption and pollution
came in from the west,
because ‘they’ wanted the best.

The traditional village smith,
Lord of fable and myth,
is really a medicine man
and can
make rain, love potions, and the kind,
is sovereign over the power of your mind.
But the real magic, the real potions,
are in the motions
of the earth
and the birth –
of man, of lion, of the tetse, desert and swamp,
of bushman trance and samburu stomp.
Finger harps, wooden drums and the woman’s trill;
family, brotherhood, and lives that fulfill –
despite shortage,
and the carnage,
enigma
and stigma,
that this continent bring.
As the sound of chapel and muezzin ring –
sounds of judgement and sin,
in which these lands now live in –
since imperialist power
mutated evolution in an hour.
She had no chance,
fell to the capitalist lance.

Yet, still, such a majestic piece of this world
cannot be unwhirled,
unravelled, defined by words.
It’s best left to the bees and the birds.
No poet can mould his language to describe,
no author can enforce or bribe,
nor prise the feelings from this land’s very soul,
no man, not even King Creole.
Not even doctor blacksmith at his forge,
could ever cross this enormous gorge.
His tools, his fire, his anvil and tongs,
will never right all the wrongs.
Nor can he forge and bend
any of the words ’til their end.
Because not a word, nor a paragraph, chapter or story
will ever capture the glory,
of Africa.

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