Maranti trees shelter green slopes

in the Pacific Rim of Sabah.

This lofty estate is my terrestrial zenith

where I survey these woody punctuations

as they take aim at megastars.

This is where I smell the Melati in Spring,

where I survey starry night frolics

with contemplations of thoughts turned past.

Above the tall trees a dim sallow moon contours

ominous dark clouds forward a fast-moving storm.

As clouds begin to stir and thunder starts to growl

raindrop trysts fall quickly to the ground

normally kept dry by lush, green leaves.

A dual renewal will soon take place with new leaves

replacing old ones, and village children replacing me.

These are the last days of my expat country, where coteries of Premen–

rough, unhewned silhouettes of society, roamed these hills

preying on the good luck of others.

Political goals were as pointless law scrolls as men sang

to their own runic-like rhymes.

But now they are gone as dust motes in the dark of night

and all that’s left are these magnificent trees, these hills and

these beautiful children.

And I stand looking down as the rain moves away

laundering the hills and the Danum Valley with nature’s renewal.