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by Annette Snyckers

Next to the dusty road you stand,
your friendly eyes crinkled
in the midday sun –
you open your mouth;
words clatter out like pebbles
in a fast-flowing stream –
sibilants hiss and splatter,
consonants clap.
I ask the way
and your finger points far
beyond the hills.

I listen,
but I hear only your voice
and the wind in the grass,
I look across the veld
but my eyes cannot follow
the way of your tongue –
I am lost
because I do not
understand what you say –
I am lost
in a land we both love.

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