white blossoms in the air <br />one more spring in the exile I chose <br />that becomes addictive to itself <br /> <br />cold April London streets <br />and record bins in Soho basement stores <br />the damp smiles which invite me from afar <br /> <br />white Kalahari butterflies <br />the smell of fresh cow dung <br />the taste of ripe marula fruit is sweet <br /> <br />sitting by acacia trees <br />fingers in the shallow dusty soil <br />caressing Africa as a lover would <br /> <br />then she embraces me <br />like a soul in memory <br />an orphan child finding its mother's knee <br /> <br />to protect her now in turn <br />I witness her defence against <br />all blind and negative publicity <br /> <br />in the maelstrom of the West <br />that speaks no unconditional word <br />in generosity, be sure <br /> <br />a new thing each day is begun <br />as I fight off voices whispering <br />my life's work has been done.<br /><br />Frank Bana<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/kalahari-butterflies/
