Where to start but at the gust of the wind,
no beginning has it and its end unsung,
constant, yet ever moving,
dissolving, reappearing.
And with this gentle grasp, time unfolds—
wandering the corridors of an earthly life,
feeling the will of a people's plight.
Awake beyond the distant sea.
The fruit, high up the coconut tree,
reached by the skillful hands
of an African child's tenacious plans.
And in that vision, at the will of time,
imprinted on the iris of my seeing eyes,
I love more strong.