The picture-perfect village
Is what Habo now admires,
As they change the trays of sage
And put out the night's fires.

Huge, brown huts, bettered with age,
Thatched with roofs pointed higher.
It's like he could envisage,
How old Jiki nights expired.

Human bodies are the page,
On which the sharpened wire
Makes lines to out an image
That glistens when they perspire.

Closed, jagged patterns of rage,
Mixed with wide lines that inspire,
Tell history easy to gauge
Their wants, needs, and desires.

Their feet march very freely,
Like the sand doesn't cut hard.
But Habo has walked limply,
Without shoes to serve as pads.

They don't care for modesty.
Most of them are barely clad.
He doesn't get it truly,
Why they are naked and glad.

Some are wrapped, not entirely,
In kamagbunon dress straps.
Habo's dressed similarly,
And the chafing is so bad.

While they move about proudly,
Habo cowers just a tad.
It's twenty-twenty-three.
He shouldn't dress like he's mad.

They're speaking the same Jiki.
It's the same words they utter.
But it's spoken differently,
Changed roots, one from another.

"Owo mitun nuoh di,"
Is how they greet each other.
It means, "I see you gladly."
But that's been changed forever.

"O mi nuoh," made shortly,
Rolls off the tongue much smoother.
It is still the same Jiki
With fewer words than they'd rather.

Habo already agrees.
There's been much to discover.
He's seen much along these trees.
What else could he uncover?