Under African skies a lone bushman sat alone beneath the rugged unforgiving cliffs. As he slowly thumbed the reeds of his small instrument he began to sing a song learned from his ancestors. Some say that this song has been passed down through eternity, from before the beginning of this great cycle. His low vocals accompanied the reeds in a mesmerizing dance, drawing ever closer and closer to some nonexistent center, spiraling in a mutating polyphonic complexity in the night air. The sound resonated against the stone walls and seemed to repeat the words in an endless echo, “There is a dream dreaming us, there are dreamers we dream.” The sky seemed to open up above him and a seemingly infinite horizon stretched in all directions. Stars and galaxies swirled in the cosmos overhead. Depths and details unimaginable, scents and subtle sounds, surrounded the bushman as he looked upon the world again for the first time. “It is my creation” he breathed wordlessly as his song lulled. In wonder and amazement the bushman continued his song and elation rushed through his veins. “There is a dream dreaming us, are we the dreamer or the dream?”.
Under African Skies...