Lodging in old kazungula

As the wind flagellates heavily,  
I catch the scent of cigarette smoke,  
a familiar plunge—  
greased lightning before my nostrils,  
whirling memories of laughter,  
of twilight conversations,  
in the heart of old Kazungula.  
 
With a beer in hand,    
the world softens,  
a passive embrace  
wrapped in the night’s gentle arms—  
the aroma of hand-rolled cigarettes,  
a neighborhood chorus,  
whispers of stories,  
smoke curling like dreams.
 
The sun softly petering out,  
its golden fingers retreating,  
the black sky latches on,  
a cloak for the stars,  
while I linger on the veranda,  
fondling a bottle of antiquated Scottish wine—  
complimentary, yes,  
but aged like the tales it cradles.  
You see, wine improves with age,  
yet I find myself improving with each sip,  
the world around me blurring,  
softening the edges of reality.
 
And then, as if summoned,  
the dewdrops fall,  
a disbanded symphony,  
hailing from the gods of this land,  
I rush to the window,  
open it wide,  
and let my head spill out into the night.  
 
Oh, it’s glorious!  
This moment—  
where the wind carries whispers,  
the smoke swirls like memories,  
and I am caught in the embrace  
of a night that wraps around me,  
every heartbeat a celebration  
of existence,  
of solitude shared  
with the universe,  
and the intoxicating sweetness of life.