With tears in his eyes the Cave-Dweller looks at the Cross Roads and bemoans his woeful state "I was hoping to set off on a journey to the Greener Lands, yet here I am forever stuck at the Crossing of the Roads. What will become..." The Anarchist chips in "Plant Green Seeds under your feet and it will rise up into Green Shoots and you'll have your Green Lands."
The Cave-Dweller answers "If I were to cultivate my own Green Lands I don't want you hanging around serving up unwelcome advice!"
In the far distance the Carillon chimes gently in
the northernly wind "I wonder whether I will be welcome in these Green Lands? Nowadays, everyone seems to want Green Lands for themselves, fence it off and live on their ownsome selves. Lonesome ownsome Green lands..." the Carillon sings.
The Wretch comes stumbling out of his hole, his vinegar-lips properly chapped and blistered, he enunciates slowly and deliberately "Why all these moanings? I thought I was the one to carry the world's sorrows on my back."
The Cave-Dweller, not believing that he is still stuck at the Cross Roads with all these interjectionists contributing to his overly overwhelmed state of mind, utters in great dismay "I am leaving this very instant, I can not stomach these interminable pronouncements!"
Out of the thick shadows the Loner comes crawling and breathlessly gives voice to his rusty syllables "Mister Cave-Dweller, you can not run away, you belong in your Cave. The Green will get too Green for you and you will become insatiably unsatisfied."
At this moment the legs of the Prehistoric Postal Agent could be seen sprinting over the plains.
The Wretch vocalizes what was on everyone's mind "Argh, not him again!"
The Carillon chimes out one cacophonic chord to announce the arrival of the Prehistoric Postal Agent.
"What a dismal looking company thou art. I have come from yonder to deliver some invigorating news."
The Cave-Dweller rolls his eyes and exclaims "Make haste with your news, my Green Lands are waiting impatiently for my arrival!"
"That's the very thing I have come to report on" the Prehistoric Postal Agent glibly states.
"At the International Green Lands Convention it has been agreed that the Green of the Lands needs to be replaced with something new - inhabitants are getting disinterested and fatigued by this monotonous colour. It has been voted that Mauve is to be the new colour gracing our landscapes."
The Cave-Dweller couldn't help thinking aloud "Huh - I'm moving to Mauver Pastures - that doesn't sound pleasant to my ear."
Ek her-besoek dikwels my ouer gedigte en vind dit interessant hoe dit my maak voel. Dikwels kry ek skaam vir die naïwiteit en ongekunsteldheid van hierdie vroeër werke. Tog is daar 'n paar wat my nogsteeds diep laat glimlag, soos hierdie een, so agt jaar terug geskryf: Kalkulasie Kyk of jy die volgende kan
tel al die vokale saam
vermenigvuldig dit met die
som totaal van die konsonante
(jy mag nota’s maak op die
Tel die lettergrepe saam,
bereken dan die vierkantkwadraat
(Jy moet mooi beraam en
geen stap uitlaat)
Maal bogenoemde met die totaal
eksplosiewe van elke woord
Dis ‘n som van ‘n ander
Bereken die proporsionele
verhouding tussen werkwoord en punt