you said to me: dear artist
with your avid sense for a good
fotograph: africa is dying.
that was 30 years ago
when we marvelled about your
fotographs about kenia and its
folklore/ besides its landscapes
where you grew-up.
however/ the poet and atist saw
with his mind’s eye
with the number seven.
seven muses would dance to
the ballads/ the poet dedicated
my god! anna exclaimed/this/this
i could never write in greek –
you don’t have to –
just live it with me for a while
as long our libidos will last
and eros had shot its last bolt.
the sound of the rites of spring
had been composed with the
doing of an arrow by wayward
eros/ aimed at stravinsky –
very much in love and expressing
himself to the core of sexual love.
a rounddance of beautiful women
like the sudden awakening of an
african spring overnight-
colours of plum/ ivory-white/ pink
peach/ flaming red/ violet jacaranda
so the women from amber skin/ tan
cinnamon/ coffee/ ebony dusk/ and
indian red-curry/ the artist’s pallette.
eternal spring in one’s heart.