I don’t readily tell this tale
For it is as strange as strange can be
Few find it right to believe
For such sights in waking daylight
Our flesh eyes never ever
see.
That something isn’t true
Just because our eyes weren’t near
To examine its shape or size
When before us it grew.
I lived in those days
Beside a forest in a wooden
bungalow
Between the wood and my residence
Flowed a river languidly
The water glazed a glassy glow.
In the mid of the moonless nights
When the village voices were
silent
An eerie music rose from the
stream
And beats of drums and *nagadas
With strains of chorus were
consistent
As my heart from childhood was
Crazy for music and dance
I was drawn often to the forest
floor
The ring surrounded by shadowy
trees
As if pulled by a trance
Matching my steps with
Spirit figures on the rustling leafy
floor
My eyes sometime fell on the trees
That floated like ballerinas on
rinks
Only it was an unvisited, unplowed
moor
The woody disco halted
When the eastern stars to west bent
The DJ and the dancers dashed
behind the screen
As the first owl howled, not a
rooster
The misty music fell silent
You wouldn’t believe the tale
I don’t expect, we are of material
fold
There’s a world beside ours hidden
Perhaps we’ll be
citizens there
After we cross the threshold
*Nagada = a bowl-shaped percussion
instrument
giving loud base sound
when hit with weighty sticks
Xavier Bage
Thurs, March 31, 2016
