The Rain Queen of Limpopo
She stands where cycads guard the ridge,
a hush between the thunder and the root,
Modjadji—whose breath is weather,
whose palms keep the ledger of clouds.
No iron crown, no clattering court,
only woven cloth and whispered rites;
she speaks in names the sky remembers,
and fields reply with green and grain.
When drought leans close she lifts a song,
and distant horizons answer in silver;
children learn to watch her shadow,
farmers mark the rhythm of her hands.
Generations fold into her name,
a river of women calling rain—
and in the hush before the first drop,
the land remembers who will listen.
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