of the big-sky karoo,
through lush vineyards
and on towards the low
“These mountains make me feel like singing!”
The car presses on.
Beneath ancient red-yellow rock mountains,
overlooking the green-brown layered land,
he sings of Angola,
through the heart of the mountains,
he sings of freedom.
He sighs, gazing towards the foggy horizon;
off the low-brush
desert valley .
We enter the dining room
it is quarter to nine and they stopped serving dinner
fifteen minutes ago.
There is silence
for the city-folk.