while on a safari in Congo so deep i met a small bushboy appearing under my feet
he carried a pack boys in stifling heat twice his own weight boys on nothing to eat
he went on no ration ‘cause he lagged behind i would’t’a cared boys but this lad blew my mind
he went ever forward w’i naught on his feet and grinned at the master though he was so beat
i could no longer give whittle for the boy last in line my walls finally crumbled as i wished he was mine
so i could just feed him and nourish his mind since his soul was unbeaten as he conquered mine
so i told the head tracker i needed small hands to work my small camera upon my command
and he sent me the wee boy with large toothy grin he said ‘isha missa�?BR>i said ‘gunga din�?BR> he tilted his head as i started to laugh he said ‘got camera boss�?BR>i said ‘can you laugh�?BR> he carried my camera snapped pictures of dirt not one useful photo (i thought) but my camera never got hurt
he dashed and he darted from pillar to post snapping the shutter at dirtdivil ghosts
and ants catching spiders and beetles with dung of buffalo piles and songs packer’s sung
he’d run up to show me his new work �?with pride that smile in dimensions destroyed my insides
i made sure he had rations when he returned to their lot like wee League of Nations eating from one nasty pot
no matter he grew strong and lively each day by each day he’d run ‘long side me yakking away
he told me of famine and firry plains he told me of killings and he kept naming names
of folks in his family, who left him in dust he told me these stories with a thick outer curst
seems his mother had died sometime in spring and his father ‘ate bullets�?BR>as he fought v. mighty king
he was brave and vivacious for a wee spindly lad, and his English audacious he’d lament ‘Eeeng’ish baaaad?�?BR> though pitiful orphan neither pity in his grin his heart was of kings�?boys i learned life from him
at the end of safari he went on his way along with the trackers he now worked for pay
i wish he’d come with me in my humble poem but he told me ‘hey missa�?BR>‘de desert ma home�?BR> i wonder what happened to smallest bushboy i wish him safe passage i wish him full joy
what are left are his pictures now so precious to me i’ve credited ‘boy isha�?BR>alongside of ‘me�?BR>
There's no doubt that you took this 'smiler' to your heart, Mikhail, a beautifully told picture/story, contrasting so aptly with part one (now to part three)
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