Ronald Ronald Schnarr's Entry Poem about Africa Scents expelled on misty waves, Through dirt that burns in urban skies.
Venders sing their songs of produce, While dirty children play at night.
This rapture of earth, This wildest of dreams, Has gently buried, With oil stained hand. What once looked rich, Now looks poor, To the natives That walk this land. Hands that rub with balm of tiger, Ten thousand voices of praise, Hearts beaten of drum and cattle And streets of gold that blaze. Industrial pumpers pumping away Filling the sky with fume, Yet all the more sweetly This sun it shines between the clouds At noon. O, Africa I hear your laugh.