Clouds are scattered
across blue sky hanging low,
Beneath them savannah’s drying
and nomad tribes are on the go.
Beneath them babies are crying
for mother’s milk; it doesn’t flow.

The nights are cold, the days are long,
filled with sunshine and bird song.
Nowhere else is the earth as red,
soaked with warrior blood that had bled.
Just as the grass, though it may not seem,
is nowhere as green.

This is the land of color, of taste,
of fruit that’s sweet.
This is the land of music, of dance,
of rhythmic beat.

Rooted, like columns,
acasia trees support the sky
under which zebra, elephant,
buffalo, all live and die.

I don’t want to say goodbye to
Africa – the land is dying.
Africa – for you I’m crying.
Africa – there must be hope,
there must be hope for Africa.


Giraffes meeting Etosha Park – Photography by Patrick Galibert

Alien, alienated. That's me.

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