A memory of the old country

A wild child and the wild child’s
child
Together we can see
A sort of natural native house a bit like a teepee
Reminds me of the Avenue of volcanoes
Far away
Where the Anaconda prowl the wetlands
And the piranha play

Wildness sees the rolling mists
The giants waterfalls
The crystal gems and sun lit rocks
Where the Eagle calls
It’s great sweep of emotion it’s flight path
On the wing
The pan flutes and the Quichua
And the songs they sing