| By Ian “Origi” Akatwijuka |
In my hands the bamboo sheet.
I couldn’t read a thing on it.
But I smiled, smiled at the elegance
of a language I couldn’t speak,
an alphabet I couldn’t decode;
the beauty of a secret that wasn’t mine to know.
And then I saw it,
like I was there at it’s conception,
watching life unfold before me:
watching the brush slide and sliver over the page,
not knowing what it said but feeling what it felt
– the scratching of it’s tip on the bamboo,
the little chuckle of a poet pleased with himself,
turning the brush thoughtfully in his fingers;
hearing the rustling wind
whipping the mist-glazed bush
– those three tokens of nature’s grandeur
the subject of the poet’s attention;
feeling the cool breeze
caressing the poet’s bearded cheek lightly,
giving him goosebumps there and on his arms
because of what it whispered to him
or because it was simply a bit too cold;
and then the frog jumps into the water
making the water’s sound.
