And sun streaming down the Banyon tree
And the painted bamboo shagged with green
And jungle velvet and torch ginger harmonies
And the sound of streams everywhere.
But there are birds that I can't see,
Mynah and Macaw they say,
Who speak familiar tongues
That I can't comprehend
Except by knowing.
And the people here,
Weighed down by rain,
Look at me
Like I'm some different species,
One they can believe in.
And the mountainsides
Rolled with lava,
Dotted with pink,
Seem to say something distinct
As the grasses glow translucent.
But what's delivered in my heart
Is my belief in it, nothing more.
It turns gray with the rain
To a dismal field
Of undifferentiated waste.
Such is the scam of make-believe
We paint onto our faces,
The exotic clothes that we parade
Across the stage. We sell who we're not
And wait for our hands to applaud
A little more weakly
As each consummation
Seems more of the same,
A waiting, expectant,
For what is still deferred.
