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The murmuring brook lulls the tired stranger to sweet repose the cold wind caresses the stranger's face then the night comes the stranger lying on his back watches the beautifully peaceful moon always loyal faithful and dedicated to its cycle one comes back to earth awakened by the squeaking of the insects of night enjoying the fearful pleasures of listening to the scheming crickets that wonder out of their hideouts and remembering the staunch vigorous smell of the markets the smell of human bodies toiling for the day's meal. |
Khasu, Kona. “The Brook.” The Seeds of Time: A Collection of Poems. Mimeographed typescript. Monrovia, 1971. 11.
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