Who calls the rains
over black mountains?
Who will tell
the wanderers to stay?
On summer air,
I count thirty clouds....
have they no cause to release?

So happily
they drift on by
in the vast immaterial sky....
Humming a tune
of a life without gloom;
Backs always warm,
gaily, they soar,
thinking, "I could pass
another day
without dropping my rains
on black mountain way."

And so it has been,
and even today,
they spare not a thought;
not a drop falls upon the peaks.
And so it shall be:
Not a drop shall fall on black mountains....
And so it shall be.

Flat-bellied sandsurfer:
        Go away from our kingdom!
        We didn't ask for an apology.

Slime-coated worm:
        There is more at stake
        than your pleasure.

Broad-lipped tonguecow:
        Your reckoning is come!
        Now see your deeds brought before you.

We revel in your
faults and failings.
It's refreshing
to hear your
salted wailings,

With
        every
lick
        of the
             knouter's
whip
          upon those naked ceilings.

Blood runs high on Valsabar,
drips down in the
steep valley of cravens –
more news to our ears,
as gravel to our spears,
and our sandal skin
will swallow up
your sand-shriveled
water hut.

Swelter of summer in the veld.
An old buggy hums along,
Playing a German tune.
The bushbucks scatter from cover.
Roland dismounts; his partner too
Stares out across the thicket sea,
With quavering jaw, puffs his pipe
And slings a hunting gun.
Says he to Roland:
“Here, we are masters of the plain!
In the company of beasts,
We should not be lonely,
Yet my heart cries out
For land and love that I left.”

Roland stamps a dusty rock.
Arms hang freely, eyes sunken low.
His bronzed face,
Marked with the age of a soldier,
Nurtures a sad smile....
“In the land of Amazons,
We roved like bandits
And lived like kings;
We could take whatever we wished,
Amidst the cries of desperate men….
Don't you see, brother?
Men like us are destined
Never to find happiness.”

...Evening birdsong ushers
Cool night over the veld.

Crossing Smuggler’s Gap.
Echoes from the cavern walls
Remind me of once-breath'd kin:
How they lived,
Bound with iron chains,
And coal black whips at their feet!
The rollicking tide follows,
Infinitely pressing upon the land.
Winds the southern branch that way,
Sea’s roar so fresh in the air.
...I am glad to be leaving,
For, to stride the gap,
I do not dare.

Chalkstone paved
        The unceremonious call
        Of a yellow machine
Dry craters where forests once grew....
        If the moon is out,
        And my hunger is sated,
They may grow anew.

Sitting cross-legged on a salt pillar.
The threads of fate entangle
My last vision of a unified parade.
Red-powdered shame.
My hope is gone,
So, without Keening,
I pass this task to someone braver.

Palatial dawnrise.
Ten thousand petals
adrift over marbled gates.

Troopers beat a copper gong
to mark the festival of renaissance....

Cacophonous choir erupts;
torch-carriers rush
to light the jade hanging lamps.

Jesters smoke cherry pipes by the pier,
hawkish sellers peddle delicacies,
foreign emissaries walk briskly
down saffron lanes.

Once filled,
I gladly soak your culture;
now, at the pastry cart,
I'll purchase a sweet treat for my love.