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In this country, it is said that cartographers
die of rheumatic minds. A wayward stream contending
for an astrologers’ fancy, a colonial boldness
trace tributary over tributary
a saga of youthful wanderlust. It is the country of our
meeting, an uncharted terrain of history making
the languor of our youth married to the earnestness of
our absolution.
The signs of my time has been grafted on them but
the complexions of our youth are yet to surrender.
Trenches and trenches through each of their fissures,
Allow us to trace an exit pathway, neither life nor death.
For I, baptised by the fire of senility,
tremble to clasp the microcosm of the folding world as you
left it in the palms of my hand.
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