The bungled
path beats a winding trail
To a golden plain
of brown grassheads:
A sprawling plate
of endless phantasm-
Serene and still
as picturesque painting,
Reclines listlessly
in lackadaisical repose.
The languid
air stands still as a baobab-
no globules of dust dart back and forth
no thundering tremors rattle this land
Upon its
gleaming brown surface,
A dark dancing
shadow traces
The outline
of a bird of prey:
On this
canvas of brown baked earth,
The shadow
coasts in circling motions
Round and
round the man’s shadow-
coasting and circling
swelling and shrinking
A solitary
tree, a lump of rocks,
Sprinklings
of scattered growth;
Are all the
sum of sights
That meet his
naked eye
But to the unassuming initiate
An age-old crypt is revealed
In the
bosoms of the sullen stoic rocks,
Rests a
mystic rock with ancient notes;
Buried in
their sinews and muscles,
A latent gong
reverberates sonorous
To the
tapping of earnest hands;
But only they
of discerning ear
May hear the
tale encoded in sound
For therein rings
a sacred password
Concealed
from the wistful myopia
Of human
perception-
The seal of the first gateway
The mystic garden of legend
