And birds have opted for warmth in their nests:
Our woes, afar would drift,
Ahead surging, my love, would be useless,
Trying ages have denied us rest,
So we'll retrace our footsteps back...
Our house will be cold,
Wretched, leaking and infested;
But there isn't a place--better, like home.
Wasn't it therein that we consumated our love?
As creeking crickets; hissing snakes,
Just echoed the rhythm of my hoe at work...
Around the hearth we'll squat thus,
Tell and re-tell old tales--
Gathered from virgin lands yonder,
Wherein thirst and hunger had us taken,
To harvest misery...
Again, we'll love,
By the fireside,
In gloomy darkness...
With laughter we'll choke,
Every dawn-break;
Whilst the sun shines,
And the wind hums melodies--
Drowned by the rain...
(c) Wafula p'Khisa.
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