From Bloemfontein at midnight through flotsam-flung funereal gums for the last time I depart.
The Orange River is riveted with stars; leaping girders zigzag a dance of death over the moon. At Norval's Pont I waken enormous ghosts of pain.
I stop at Dwaal and the universe stops with me; in the dark soul of the night you can hear the wind's mind wandering at Dwaal.
I have a duty; I must witness a terrifying encounter; I must be at a certain appointed place, at a certain appointed time, when the Karoo beauty for beauty outmatches the dawn.
On the end of the station platform at Rosmead sits a blind black man with a guitar, "Miesies got a baby, Baby's name is Abie, Abie, da baby, Abie, da baby boy.”
the voice quavers with the horizon above the muffled laughter as apple cores and peach pips are thrown into his hat or at him.
With set jaw the silence takes their names. Delicate titillation of rubber, an Alfa-Romeo on the N7. Handsome TJ off to see a bored suburban debutante in PE. It quickly passes me; lounge-lizard beating Hercules at Rummy. I feed on flames and the aching arms and sweat of men I hump the agony of steel.
My huge flat ears and gait short from the knees down are like those of the African elephant untameable.
Ah, but never more will my proud searchlight rear at the stars before dipping down that slow slope to Hanover Road. Quietly I would go: quieter than the hiss of the lamp over the milkcans, and the softly sobbing child. Gently: gentler than the stationmaster's voice: “Toemaar, boetie, Toemaar, ouboet.”
And then I would join that heart with the drumboogie of mine and my wild wail in the night.
How now will children sleep again on the line from Hanover Road?