I nearly disappeared into the mouth of a crocodile. I nearly touched the rain deep in the heaven on high. I could have been a sad piece of news on the radio.
There's a brawl in a lonely 'whites only' bar. A lekker groove in a classy shebeen. Someone betrayed in a government car. A silent movement on the stock market screen.
In ships, they came from Europe, across the salt sea. Come for the build and raise a colony. And in the jungle, green, their citadels did gleam. In tribute and homage to the old country.
Long ago there was a sound in the night. Kwela man, singing under the street light. A cheap guitar, he gave his sorrow a smile. And he sowed his songs in the alley ways mile upon mile.
Chopper standing in the clearing, fueled and ready to ride. Captain in the doorway, telling us to step inside. Last minute check, all weapons set, parachute and right sight.
I'm a working alien. In a land of heat and stone. A casualty of an economic war. That took me away from home. . It's the politics of money and power. It's the hope that we can build.
I don't want to be a tourist in your heart. I don't want to visit someone else's ruins. Don't want a day trip to the feelings in the dark. Don't want a quick-fix honeymoon.
Wanderers and nomads have gone to see their chieftains. Will this be the end of the rain and the birds?. Who can send an emissary to speak to the seasons?.