He'd known it wouldn't be <br />a picnic with a vintage red, <br />they'd likely stone the girl <br />with hatred burning cruel eyes. <br />Yes, this was Africa, the land <br />of all the creatures Noah saved, <br />of open space and sudden death <br />within the jungle and on open plains, <br />life did renew itself, eternally, a spring <br />of nectar, red as blood, and bright <br />reflecting crystals of hot sand <br />and gushing with the sound of streams <br />that never would survive the season. <br /> <br />He'd picked a gaunt and mostly dead <br />tree called the Jackalberry, home at times <br />to hungry vultures of indifferent persuasion, <br />they would be safe from lions and the like. <br /> <br />He hurried on, swinging his satchel <br />which contained the scones and dates <br />and one small bottle of Shiraz, a dry <br />and spicy Joostenberg, twothousandfour. <br /> <br />He spotted her, a flowery dress, a flag <br />of sweet surrender, perhaps it was. <br />There was a bloody-mouthed hyena, <br />eating the last few bits of flesh, and bones, <br />and only then he saw the birds of death, <br />all set to pounce, with hurried elegance. <br />It was the lions that had beaten racial hate.<br /><br />Herbert Nehrlich<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/racists/
