ربيع الدنيا

Hear again the titihoya , going about its business of forlorn crying . On the lovely road to Ixopo, I hold my spirit . We dig a well together . I lower the bucket, he fills it up . We drink, we celebrate, our one heart soothed by what is near Then ,I scratch his pensive head with my thumb . If I let, he will zigzag through the veld looking for a branch to perch....See, umfundisi , the stars are getting closer. At dawn , the titihoya will cry, and I will lose my spirit....Cradle me, old man . Why do we live here ? ******* Written by Alan paton