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She sat in a corner facing the wall, In a tense little alcove just off the main hall, She sat with her back to the eddy and flow, Glancing through the window at the roses below. Her life seemed nothing but the computer screen, As she sat there, rock steady, her features unseen, He noticed slim shoulders in determination set, But alas! He hadn’t managed to see her face yet. Cascade of hair, sometimes clamped in a bun, Who’d associate this girl with humour or fun? Sometimes the dark tresses haloed her head, But her face was a mystery, a novel unread. Then one day they met in the kitchen unplanned, He blurted out an inanity he thought was so grand; Next day she was back with a witticism so rare, It left him flat-footed as he stood gaping there. Her face! It dazzled him like diamonds aglow, Wondrous beauty he had been tragically slow To realize, acknowledge, awareness misplaced, He felt slightly dizzy, his heart madly raced. He made it a point to ne’er let her know, Just how, by her qualities, he had been laid low, He met her rarely, and stuck to small talk, But stood at a distance and admired her sweet walk. Her stride was like she’d just bought the place, But it wasn’t her beauty, her heart-melting face, It was sheer love of life, upwelling of joy, That gave her that gait…the little tomboy! In time, he realized, there now lived in his chest, An emotion so unsettling he thought it was best To simply ignore it, in the hope that one day It would decompose finally and just go away. As their friendship deepened he knew he was sunk, One day his secret would be out (so he thunk), The lass was one in a trillion, he was sure, And his malady was one that had no known cure.
And in time he realized that come ice or hell, She had slipped past his guard so exceedingly well, He was perfectly aligned for a knockout punch, And she wasn’t amused, he had a strong hunch. The seasons changed, and t’was just as he’d feared, His ardour had meant that she nowadays steered, A course that took her away from his field But his emotion, ageless, had meanwhile congealed. Atavistic memories shattered barriers of time, He realized he had known her since time out of mind, And that awareness brought him a great inner peace, As he swam through the currents of the cosmic seas. This time it was fated that they stay half and half, As the gods pull the strings and heartily laugh, At the puny human characters in the world far below, As they come onstage, playact, and then take their bow. She’s the Eternal Woman in his fate he’s dead sure, This round went against him but he’ll gladly endure Other bouts just as punishing, as Life after Life He meets her repeatedly through thunder and strife. The day he has suffered for will finally be born, As the hesitant first light doth herald the dawn, He knows she will feel the pull of lost years: Make it all worthwhile, the pain and the tears. She sat lost in the corner before her keyboard, Oblivious to the ancient affection that poured Over her; and, as she toiled on before her screen, The eons swirled about her, unfelt and unseen.
The Bushman is the nom de plume of an underground poet long thought to be holed up somewhere in Asia. The majority of his poetry is simple and unaffected, and he seems to have but a nodding acquaintance with the three R’s. In spite of his apparent lack of erudition, however, he is a sensitive recorder of the little tragedies and ironies of life. Many are of the opinion that he’s quite insane, but just as many people think he's madly, ice-cold sober.