The Natives

The brass gong sounded
Feet thudded.
Shells jangled
Dancers rounded.

Old man watched on with beady eyes,
Old man smiled on with calm delight.
Old man smoked on with ancient pipe,
Old man sat on with royal pride.

Crimson, gold, and green were their colors,
Native was their land, their rituals, their life.
The gait of the old signified wisdom,
The gait of the young rich with innocent pride.

The Tugo and percussions thumped; hands quickly shifted,
Arms were raised high; their yells drifted.
Chants reached the air; parted and mingled,
Loud were their voices,
Strong were their impulses.

Beautiful how they danced with dirty feet,
Calloused were the hands that waved their fleece.
Oh, lovely how their culture showed through the mist!
And only for a second did I dare and breathe.