The Last Of His Tribe
A poem
No one knew his name,
Or his mother tongue,
After surviving twenty six years in isolation,
Did he long for human touch?
Camouflaged by day,
Hibernating in holes at night,
I wonder what his decaying thoughts were,
Swaying in that hammock in the rain-forest.
Only known as the man of the hole,
Yet I have so many questions,
Like did he catch raindrops on his tongue for fun?
Did he dream of finding another?
Did he know he was the last of his tribe?
Did the constellations witness his last breath?
Did the trees weep for his soul?
Did anyone cry for him at his burial?
I wonder if he buried a prize token somewhere,
Under the soil like a modern day time capsule,
Did the rain-forest welcome his perishing body as nourishment?
Was his soul carried by butterflies to the afterlife?
Did he chant any mantras for strength and protection?
Or was he a stranger in his own life?
Was he reunited with loved ones upon death?
Did he know he was the last of his tribe?
Did he know he was the last of his tribe?
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