Going on a Tata to Anse Takamaka

Wroom, the indian engine roars,
Wroom, click, gear-gear, roaaaamm …
And the multitude of rupee coins
In the driver’s plastic bag
Clicker-di-click-click
Like the treasures of a pirate’s chest
But there’s no way out of Victoria
Without getting … stuck … in … traffic …
Stuck … in … traffic … stuck
And the fully packed rumbler sighing:
How did all these cars get on that island?

But after the airport – we fly away
On and on and on and on and anse on anse on anse on anse …
Passing 150 shades of green in a lushness
And lust for growth
That it bothers me
That just by looking at it
Even as a man you could get pregnant
And on and on and anse on anse …
We call „Devan!“ by the sight of palm trees –
Leaving the Tata for Anse Takamaka,
Understanding in the shimmering sand
That we’ve never understood the colour blue
And would never be able to describe
Anyone this range of blueness –
Except for saying
That we
Were
There.