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I have to get to Texas.

There’s a man waiting for me.

I can hear him calling,

but it might be from Tennessee.


The call is dry and deep

Gravel grating from the heat

I might have the wrong continent

We might never meet.


I can almost smell his tobacco

I sense his eyebrow lift

I have to hope the continents

Still have urge to drift


I have to get to Texas

Or just the Klein Karoo.

Open spaces

Open faces

Not one face like you.

 

Words © Mia de Jager
Image © Henk Esterhuizen