Bushmen shadows

[Keith]

Edit 1
Where the sand ripples arid red
and time-laps clouds roar by,
white is bleached on searing blue,
the hunting grounds run dry.

Twisted sisal strung on sickle,
your package tour bow to keep,
come and sit beside our fire,
shhh, the shaman is asleep.

Hunters pose for photographs,
stolen souls can't hide their eyes,
tribes stay drunk on provided drink,
controlled by threats and lies.

The villages have all been scrubbed,
government claims their lands,
these anarchists have paid the price,
for diamonds on our hands.


Original
Where the sand ripples arid red
and the time laps sky roars by,
white is bleached on searing blue,
scorpions sink in his footsteps.

A hunters dust betrays the breeze,
over his back a lightweight bow,
twisted sisal strung on sickle,
tips dipped to drop the beast.

Once they had no boundary,
a portal to the spirit world,
sacred Elands stained in ochre,
shaman held their essence.

If only they could foresee
the future trophy kills,
gatherers spilled before capture,
Europeans with horse and powder.

Now the villages are crushed,
pressures compress their lands,
these anarchists have paid the price,
we have diamonds on our hands.