The Midnight wispered across a sleepy creek,
Hazy mists mute its snore,
Floating lilies savour its lull,
Dead Angalas tower above its banks like lonely pilars of a relic coliseum,
Their grey tones are smeared in ethereal forms atop the waters.
Towering above the banks,
The lifeless mangroves stood with an earthly ardour,
Emblazed by the grace of the African moonlight.
Through the long creek corridor,
The waters laid lost in their dreams,
And though the birds chirp nearby,
and bush babies trumpet their calls,
They could not hoick them from their repose and rest.
Little wonder why the people sleep like logs of wood;
The pristine and serenatious ambience gently pamper their rustic skins,
This world of peace, their homes;
A world like this we all wrest to own.