Upon a rock of Africa
a woman lays her loving hand.
The sun's declension round the sky
has warmed the rock historically;
the hand is soft as any mouse
and strokes the crystal dust away.
A mountainside of pulpy leaf
has passed across this rock before;
a morgue of bones, a lake of blood
neatly sewn in vellum skin
has cracked and roared across the years
for memory, beseechingly,
and yet, as silent as dark frost
and with a smile of minerals
forgetting all implacably
persists this rock of Africa.