copyright:FIONA KHAN/2011/12



Hands of the baobab

knarled, reaching for the southern stars

house seeds of ancestors and shades.

Spirits wheeze through

muted leaves, slithering on the charred dust

as souls are captured in the fruit

while footprints imprinted on the stubs of root reach

for the salvation of the future

and the restoration of the past.


It is my home. …

The home of the nomad and wayfarer

free in spirit and mind

my heart belonging

to the earth!

From the threads of manacle we are blind

the spoken words sometimes unkind.


we have innate

the ability to dominate, then obliterate

not to appreciate

as in darkness we try and illuminate

the truth which can only be revealed

in effulgent cogitate.

The past echoes triumphs of the future.

The wounds of Xa healed by sutures

once revealed in the starkness of nature.

Seeds of the past bear fruits of the future.









                                                   EARTH AND SKY


There was once melancholy

Steeped in the institute of folly

When Earth looked at Sky

And wondered why the distance

Between them was so capacious.

Such was the will of serendipity,

separated by the need for diversity.


Said Sky to Earth

While you toil and spoil

I watch and reflect your arduous efforts.

I am the mirror to your reflection.

Man is like the stars

till his last breath…

born, sparkle and then death.

Look not so sad dear friend

For this is not the end

As long as the sun

Rises and sets

from East to West

I shall be your companion

With I’m sure mutual admiration.


As you wilt under Sun

Do not think for me its fun

As I carry the weight of that torch,

This burns and scorch

When the night is nigh

Do I heave and sigh

As the oceans in ebb and tide

Can barely from the moon hide.

I belch and vent my anger

To which you are no stranger

As I wreak havoc with rain

Then recoil with pain

As I watch in vain

Man’s disdain.


So said Earth to Sky

Fear not friend or foe

You have not lost your halo!



























Land, speak to me as I speak of you.

Caress me as I lift you in the palm

Of my hands and let you sieve through my fingers.

Own me by taking me in your bosom

Unlike I, who possesses and stamp my imprint

Scarring and wounding your flawless,

Beauteous, bounty.


Land that bites the hand that feeds her,

and feeds the hand that bites her.

She does not hesitate to illustrate

Or neither demonstrate nor remonstrate

her fury or scorn.

She ingests and regurgitates

Scintillates and fascinates

then oscillates in the circle of life.


Many have turned their backs on her . . .

She still welcomes them smiling

On a face scarred and ravaged

Wrinkled and savaged.

There is still a smile!





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