They sneaked into the limbo of time.

But could not muffle the gay jingling

Bells on the frothy necks

Of the sacrificial sheep that limped and nodded after them;

They could not hide the moss on the bald pate

Of their reverent heads;

And the gnarled barks of the wawa trees;

Nor the rust on the ancient state-swords;

Nor the skulls studded with grinning cowries;

They could not silence the drums,

The fibre of their souls and ours—

The drums that whisper to us behind black sinewy hands.

They gazed,

And sweeping like white locusts through the forests

Saw the same men, slightly wizened,

Shuffle their sandalled feet to the same rhythms,

They heard the same words of wisdom uttered

Between puffs of pale blue smoke:

They saw us,

And said: They have not changed!