Spirits aren't at all the same.
Whenever I dream of a smooth yogurt,
I love to climb up the Mamelodi mountain - alone.
I get there and harvest all of my dues;
the natural fruit across the thick bushes of the wild.
I sit upon a rock and breath deep of the open air.
I listen to the sounds made by chats of wildlife
and there are so many sounds I don't understand,
but the place still doesn't feel confused.
I feel the spirit of the wild like an easy fiend
prevail over my soul - and life forms that side
know I have come, that I've come all the way to greet:
they hear me clearly and are pleased with my presence,
I say... hello!
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem