She used to sing her richest songs
To fishermen who’d lay their traps,
And buffalo who’d turn the swamps,
And bitterns who would stalk the reeds.
The warm lagoons would take her voice
And echo back the melodies:
The tone of sedge, of wave, of scrub,
The cleanest, purest, wash of sound.
She’d breathe her charms beyond the reach,
Where pelicans would clack their beaks.
This paradise between our worlds,
Between the water, land and greed.
What’s lost is truth beyond our plans,
The fragile phrases she once sang.