"The Charmed Forest"
by Mrinalini S.W
There is magic in the forests of Africa.
It dances in the fiery heavens, upon the setting sun;
It tiptoes around the delicate purple petals of the veronia,
Nimbly dodging bolts of lightning once the rain has begun.
It sings with frogs in the Linyanti river, near the flowers;
It illuminates thin blades of finger grass in the black night;
It climbs up the brush and scales the trees that tower
Over the Little Bee-Eater, hidden in plain sight.
I can still hear it now, for it sings to me:
It sings beautifully, mournfully, asking to be remembered
–As if I could ever forget its indelible melody–
Woven into the star-studded sky, for tonight and forever.
But, Africa, what are you saying,
In the crickets’ tune,
The frogs’ symphony,
The birds’ song?
Is it a lament?
Is it an elegy?
For I often ask what went wrong–
How could men not believe in your magic?
How could they burn down your bush and carve your rhinos’ horn?
How could they take your innocents across the ocean
–for, in your sparkling eyes,
I see, sometimes, the waters of the middle passage
that must have sparkled cruelly under the bright sun–
And how could they work them to their graves,
With their progress to be made and wars to be won?
Oh, when I think of those times,
–long gone but little forgotten–
And your song,
–that will, for eternity, go on–
You amaze me, for what you sing is greater than what we
–indeed, what I– might sing had we been you:
We would dwell on old enemies and lost wishes,
Bitterly cursing the wicked past.
But you? You proudly sing of a better present,
Fervently praying that this peace will last.
And to those who still question your magic,
I have little to say but this:
Watch how these people’s smiles light up the sunrise;
Watch how their ancestors’ stories color the sunset.
What, in centuries past, protected their humanity?
And what, if not magic, can bring such bliss?
