Raised by the bare bones of nature’s grace, br my home held hands with the feral forest, br where nature hid her gold. br br I have heard palm trees whisper their stories br I have listened to the silent full moon quietly teach br lessons of those who had lived. br I know of the green secrets of the earth br Soft voices of searching roots that sprout forth, cluster br around my hut to tell. br br I am from the bowels of Africa, br I understand the tongue of the wild. br I have swayed to the blue songs of humming birds that fill the br tree branches with their nests. br I have had breakfast plucked ripe off the tree br and lunch caught right from the river. br I have aimed a stick in the forest and secured supper. br br I am from the bowels of Africa, br where nature’s breast milk flows from palm trees br and every suckle leaves a smile on wrinkled ebony faces. br br I am from the bowels of Africa, br I have seen rains held up at the summons of wooden carved gods. br women foretell events of the next day, and men br hear voices of elders long dead.