O ink of womb-warm earth,rising from the calabash of origin,swirling through baobab root from griot tongue—you are not written,you are remembered. Praise the red soil that stains the feet of wanderers,the black rock that keeps the forgotten path,the wind that...

This dawnlight spills on grasslands wide and bare,While elephants move slow through morning haze,Mount Kenya stands in silent, stony praise—A god of stone, unmoved by human care.My thoughts, like dust, were drifting in the air,No compass fixed, no voice...

At the edge of the morning,they shimmer—stripes stitching and unstitching the plain,a restless river of black and white dreams. Each hoof prints a fleeting mapon the dust that forgetsand the wind that remembers. Ears tilt toward the unseen,eyes catch the flick...