The flame tree is in a mantle of red explosions <br />The ladies and young lasses watch by the window sill <br />Gazing at the flaming spectacle from the living room <br />Unaware of the blood lust this carmine display <br />Provoked among the young men in the village <br /> <br />The menfolk sauntered in pairs, in larger groups <br />Moving restlessly, listlessly in the dusty street <br />Into the alleyways and sitting in the corner stores <br />Taking swigs of gin in quarter peso cups <br />Primal instincts in restraint, innate urges on hold <br /> <br />The old men talk about the forays into other villages <br />At the first night of the flame tree's full bloom <br />Young men, then, eager to gift the village lasses <br />Ghastly trophies of truncated heads impaled in poles <br />As proof of valor, manhood and intense devotion <br /> <br />But that is just old men talking, some boastfulness <br />Coming from barren bodies and the bragging of the ignored <br />The young lads gather to listen to tales of their headhunter past <br />Wreaking havoc, sowing terror upon hapless hamlets <br />Heads of their prey strung together like hanging coconuts <br /> <br />The full moon cast a beam on the treetop blooms <br />But the red was not there, only darkened patches <br />More stories went on as the time and the gin dissipated <br />A wizened elder fell asleep in the middle of his tale <br />As village boys staggered back to the safety of their huts<br /><br />Eddie Roa<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/the-night-of-the-headhunters/
