Listening to Japanese Music

Tribal. Jungl. Deep in the closed branches of the hidden world of the Congo River. Such a mysterious, new place to so many. So full of life and wonder. The dark, leather skinned medicine men flock the banks, skimming up pieces of Earth used to heal the sick, the wounded, the impoverished few of the tribe You are but a treaspasser upon such a sacred place. They eye you in your little broken down steam boat, knowing full well what you are unaware of. They know your fate. You will not return home from the heart of the Congo-you will never see your wift, children, ever again. Irony, some say in their native tongue as you pass by. How tragically ironic that our homeland is taking you the way you took our ancestors, neighbors, lovers, friends, a hundred hears ago. you thought it nothing. Just a simple deed for workers. Workers with no pay, no simple belongings, no life but your work. But they had the good Lord in their wakes. Something you didn’t account for when you stripped them down to simple work horses. But still, so ironic that you, on your lovely little steamship, seeing all the wonders of the world not your own, can you not see the horrow from the past. How blind to it you pretend to be. We are unable to be blind. For our eyes were peeled wide to your ways many years previous. You believe we have forgotten your ways, turned the other cheek have we? Maybe. Maybe some have. Most have not. Unfortunately, and most tragecally for you, you and your little steamer, but most fortunately for those of us who remember, the land does no forget the past. She may change around events, pick up anew or revert to old, but she remembers your actions, and too upsetting for you, she wil be soon taking her vengance for them.

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