Classic Poem

In the far days that are gone there dwelt in the depths of the desert,
Scattered and wandering pygmies; hideous, filthy and squat:
Fitting kindred of Ishmael—their hands against all men were lifted—
Hating all that was human with blind and inveterate hate.
Hunters, they carried the bow and arrows with venom anointed,
Stalkers of grazing springbok, snake-like they crept through the scrub;
‘Twang’, went the tiny bowstring, unerringly sped the small arrow,
Pricking with poisonous barb the sleekest buck of the herd:
Over the desert the springbok sped, then, numb with the venom,
Tottered to earth in anguish, sank, and arose not again:
Avid as jackal the Bushman followed to drink of the fountain—
Drink of the spring that trickled red from his agonized prey:
Laden with flesh he returned to his secret cave in the koppies,
Home, where his hungering offspring whimpered and wailed in the gloom.