I’ve been on the road the past two days to Arusha and back, and during the journey I must say I was really shocked to find Kilimajaro’s trademark glacier-covered top is not even close to what it used to be.
Even worse is that the amount of glaciers left on the mountain now is even less than what I saw four years ago when I travelled to Moshi. It therefore felt right to coin this poem as tribute to one of Africa’s most iconic dwindling landmark, whatever difference that might make.
In his kilt of green,
The giant spread his boughs,
Behind a murky screen,
Of angry scheming clouds.
A marvel of history,
Shrouded in deep mystery.
Until the clouds parted,
The mystery lifted; departed,
And revealed was the giant’s familiar head,
In unfamiliar new state of undress,
Pensive villagers nodding in dread,
At what fury might conceive,
For the missing crown on the behemoth’s head,
When next it would its slumber leave.
Then the clouds once more hugged,
The giant in private passionate embrace,
Of furious tempest and granite stone.
And the villagers’ dread,
Was now as good as dead.