Place of our birth,
Our life and our pains.
The primal lullaby
Of birds and lowing herds
Awakens echoes of that ancient time
When the land gave us our birth.
The long, golden grass
Hides a warning shadow,
The lion’s mane,
Proud and unmoving;
Close by, his cubs play,
Jostling and tussling,
Learning skills for a later day.
Their mother’s tension
Hidden deep in long grass;
With focussed intention
She stalks.
Slow and low she walks;
If her brood is to last,
Another day without food
Cannot pass.
Rising out of the golden grass,
Languid splendour of the giraffe;
Her pride and joy
A young, robust baby boy.
Learning to eat succulent leaves.
Stay close to mother
In the evening breeze.
The mother’s silent pain,
Anguish slicing deep into my heart.
Again and again
She tries in vain
To save her child
Before they tear him apart.
Dust from ancient clay and thorn
Once moulded life,
Now mixed with blood.
One mother’s heart is ripped, torn;
Another’s feels respite.
The sun sinks low,
The night sky blankets
Our cradle of birth.
Another dusk, another dawn;
The cradle of life
From womb to tomb.
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