The Bushveld Thorn

In a hole there under the bushveld thorn

a dwarf man has his home.

Its walls are golden yellow clay,

And the shimmering floor, gravel.

The lamps are petite fireflies,

that sparkles like sunshine

When the shade of dusk falls

And the sun’s brightness leaves.

The seats are crystals,

that shines under the lights;

The table an enormous mushroom,

With his shaft settled into the gravel.

Cushions most elegant snow-white satin

Stolen from the Wagtail nest;

door-curtain Mongoose skin,

delicate with a fine weave.

Here the dwarf lives in the years

Where no one will ever disrupt him;

The dwarf and wife come out,

remove life-giving water from the font.

C. Louis Leipoldt

Translated from Afrikaans: Mattheus Frederik