and evoking the rhythm of gondwana I will slip slowly away

the motion of departure unseen for centuries, as I shall be

my name unknown to my future kin. be humble in your time here

words from aged women who live in the wind, whipping around

my hair evolving in the twisting of an aerial dance, braiding veil on my face

I make an oath to bathe my hair only in fresh river water till I die
the trial for the river is illness, reduced by the theft of its sacred source

a breaking of a treaty made with an almighty creator of many names

and like many I have sat on the pews singing songs in a airless church

windows stuck shut with mosaic light blocking my view of the sky

oh gondwana it is painful and beautiful, this slow evolution of self

my hair cut by the ideals of others, now matted and trodden in mud
warriors use clay to walk among and walk within and so shall I

be a warrior, evolving in the holy salutations shared with every dawn

celebrating the currency of time with the freshness of the sun

my hair regrowing like daylight, matted and wild not by regret

I stand on the ship of my evolvement and I have forgotten my name

thrown away on the winds that whirling lead back to the freshest stream