Thrice the river refused me
and it spat me out on banks of sand
as if I belong to dry land
and at times I hide beneath the waters
teaming with crocodile and a few
hippopotamuses and a water bird or two
and breathing through a reed
while the enemy passed on the riverbank
and bitten by mosquitoes
feeling the inner flame of fever
and being weak and I overcame
the nagging death
while listening to the flowing river,
the wind in the reeds
singing glory
to the creator of all things.
© Gert Strydom
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem