Everyone loved meandering to the Clearing,
Outlined by long snaky tendrils of golden grass.

The sun dips behind the meadow there,
Casting a purifiying blaze through the bearing breeze.

The baobab was still there, standing proud in the spotlight,
And we could do nothing but clamber, dreams in hand,
As we hoped the bough still held our weight.

The sun spun its final fiery wisp,
And buried itself deep in sand.

The fire gently licked the wood beneath us,
As we played with the ball of light in our hand.

One can always hear the soft purr of the leopard,
And the laughter of the hyena at the tears of the jackal,
If one only listened hard enough,
Like we did.

Finally the unaknowledged kings would appear,
And capture our eyes with their own twinkles.

We always lay awhile,
Holding hands and pointing with our leftover fingers,
At constellations that could only be seen in the deepest hour.

We would doze carelessly,
Leaving to Nature the breadth of our fall.

But instead of slipping away quietly,
Leaving only our little ball tied to the bark,
A dark hole swallowed us.

Mankind had taken it all.