As a boy I was told, "Never count the stars, you'll surely die in your sleep"
I would rise, dust my clothes off and skip through the streets.
On a foray to find the only lad within miles who had actually seen America,
where the girls reeked of garlic and the boys played games with their spit.
On nameless streets the fellows and I would soak the aroma of beef on the grill.
Peeking through lamp lit homes in search of a thrill . Nothing particularly
villainous about these actions just mere curiosity and years to kill.
In this locale life is slow like the stringent nod of a monitor lizard or the
steady grind of a saw mill, while free-range livestock converge on the stoop
for a peaceful meal.
"What is this war they speak of?", I would often query, history book open.
Even then it was obvious, glances from the old and wise, they spell the
unspoken. What good is a lesson that leaves the fragile broken? So they
would carry on, like little infants wrapped on their Mothers' backs,
such a marvelous token.
Under African Skies - Kae Sun
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