On the windward side of black ancestral corner African skies creep close to white heaven''s paradise. Lean-witted
pilgrims mask themselves as immortals indisguise. to proclaim the arena of
shadow dance. The darkest hour sees a jungle where even the fairest law would fear to tread; Yet flows the cloying smile of a masquerade. ...the sound of silence kisses the breathe of those who have gone to rest, The hour of shadow dance. "Welcome Home" cries the big drum; they''d roam and hum. Their strength is the horn of Africa. Hidden mirrors, sprinkled with ashes watch them trail like siblings of tilapia. The innocent are fed with potion of dug-up history, linking the past and present with ingredients of haunted mystery. ...Satisfied victims trace their way back home when swallowed by the open fangs of an obedient tomb. The heart of man is left to bask in the heat of terror leaving nature to wondr why chaos happens under cover. Sonner or later they disappear like illusion before sunrise whispering for another night of shadow dance.