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Africa's Name Is Beautiful
A stroll down our streets before the rains will take you past
A dusty shop on your left with a smiling caretaker waving;
A small house down on your right, its owner peacefully asleep;
And a school that still stands at the center of our society.
When you arrive at my house, you will find me,
Dark skinned, wrinkled, with hair pale from the aging process,
Always smiling out to the world in delight, in welcome.
Over the years, we have learned to always smile; always.
As the sun trails downwards, I perch and I weave and I observe.
I watch our beautiful children kick a ball down the dirt streets,
As my youthful neighbors emerge with drums and guitars, instruments
Designed to take our dreams and convert them into a delightful display.
I watch the ones with heavy textbooks walk home, smiling, excited –
And I smile back, hoping to always see those smiles, hoping
That as they age they smile with wonder at all knowledge, accepting
That the process will never end, until we are welcomed home above.
I call to them as they stroll home, late (as always), and offer the food
That I spent the day harvesting and cooking with my two scarred hands.
I relish the conversation in moments that a sunlight bath made beautiful
The plain’s animal dust trails, the dirt, the weeds, the thirsty tree roots.