Out of Africa

If I know a song of Africa,

of the giraffe

and the African new moon lying on her back,
of the plows in the fields
and the sweaty faces of the coffee pickers,

does Africa know a song of me?


Will the air over the plain quiver with a color that I have had on?

Will the children invent a game in which my name is?
Will the full moon throw a shadow over the gravel of the drive that was like me?



Will the eagles of the Ngong Hills look out for me?



Isak Dinesen
Out of Africa