The Storyteller

My heart grows old in wishing for the music of his song
For one moment to be taken to the land that he comes from
Where he tells of secret places, of great deeds and wondrous things
He speaks of towering heroes, and of long forgotten dreams
His voice is like a melody that weaves between his words
And his hands are skipping shadows that draw forth strange scatterings

With skin as black as the mocking bird and eyes as light as thought
He carries me like a wounded bird to the winding river’s source
A tale he tells, a tale he spins, with the threads of all my dreams
With a rainbow laugh and a soft rain smile and a trail of honeyed words
On a rock in the sun by the new-born stream he plucks at my memories
And sets my life before me like a living tapestry

The Storyteller knows me, and he knows my hopes and dreams
He has been beside me through the learning and the years
He still casts a shadow under sunny southern skies
He is the light of comfort at the edges of my mind

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I was born and grew in Africa, great mother of the strong
A land as cruel as kindness and as old as time is long
A land of little pity where the weak and hungry cry
For one moment’s peace from longing for a less forgiving sky
Yet this land deals out her comfort when the blue of midnight falls
And she clothes her people gently in the dew that morning calls

As I watch the Storyteller, I see sadness in his eyes
And I know it for the sadness that has haunted all my days
This question I must ask him that has echoed through my life
And the cries of Mother Africa still ask it time on time
Who can climb a mountain when your shoes are made of dreams?
And who can fight the battle while you hear the children scream?

His fingers trace a picture in the pale and fragile sand
A picture long forgotten by the dwellers of this land
It tells of a world where no man is judged by the colour of his skin
But the love in his heart and the good in his soul and the truth in his words are seen
But for all his words, and for all my tears, and for all that I see he fails
For I know, from my hill, though the wind lies still it is all just a fairy tale

The Storyteller knows me, and he knows my secret fears
He has been beside me through the learning and the years
He still casts a shadow under stormy southern skies
He is the quiet warning at the edges of my mind

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And now the land is dying in some strange intensity
That carves away her people and leaves spaces for the wind
And the wind blows cold, and the leaves run free and the trees are sketched and bare
And no longer does the mother call her infant child in care
The Storyteller shows me how the worm of death comes near
It slithers by without a sound and leaves but empty air

What are their crimes? I ask of him - Is this their penalty?
That motherless and fatherless the nation wakes to day
A cancer spreads like fire here among the young and warm
And their eyes grow dark and the shadows long before their time has come
I cannot watch these children cry alone and not reach out
My heart has thorns about it and my feet are bound in mud

My eyes are become fountains for the river of my tears
For the little ones whose growing days are woven tight with fear
The Storyteller smiles then and spreads out a trembling hand
To show me that my tears have given life to barren sand
Humanity gives reason to the long dark night ahead
Humanity gives comfort to the living and the dead

The Storyteller knows me, and he knows my sweetest dreams
He has been beside me through the good years and the lean
He still walks beside me under glory southern skies
He is the quiet comfort in the corners of my eyes.