At the forest's fringe,

Where vines embrace the sky,

A town forgotten 

Where concrete dreams hold no sway.

The last farmers,

Their hands a language of the soil,

Live here, where modern hands have slipped.

 

No paved roads reach them

No towers pierce the humid air.

Here, seasons paint their world in hues of green and gold.

Here, stories sprout like seedlings

In the tales the elders hold.

 

They plant with patient hands

Cassava roots and yams, a bounty born of quiet strength.

The mango's sweet, heavy scent

The banana's earthy perfume 

A feast of simple gifts, in this secluded space.

 

When rains descend drumming

They gather in the shade,

Escaping the world's frantic pace.

When the sun scorches their land

They share the cool of night

In stories gently made.

 

They understand the earth and its cycles

They know the forest's heart, and

The wisdom of the trees.

The world may rush and clamor

But here, in quiet strength 

They find a different kind of wealth.

For wealth is in the soil, and

Kinship in the shared breath of the forest.