the goatherd of Timbuktu*

As the sun finally went down behind the distant cliff,
He started to walk his weary ways,
He the goatherd...
And the flock of his favorite goats walked and ran
Before him, making shrill cries, homeward bound;

The dust from their feet rose,
Just like a maze,
Enveloping the tiny huts not far away,
Which looked like the refuge sought time and again by people like him... The goatherd and his goats of varied color patches on their coats,
White, grey, brown, black... The goatherd walked towards his hut,
At the end of just another day,
But he knows within,
The next day will be a new one;
He knows
The next day will bring him to another desert of Timbuktu.

(*Note: the painting attached, is used to decorate the poem and to embellish the theme of the poem/scribbling, done by Jean Baptiste Camille Corot,1843)


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