The evergreens were dusted sunrise white with mist curling through Jamaica’s Blue Mountains. In the spectacular vista of light, the two ghosts emerged and stood beside the ancient cannon that once boomed out to the Caribbean Sea, where pirates preyed on ships of England’s fleet.
The voices of the bards of times gone by whispered in the dead of day.
“Rastafarian. Lend me your ears. I rise because I heard the soul of time in your melodious songs, the lilt of your mellifluous voice that carried with trade winds bound for sunny skies, still echoing around a world I envy not, knowing its turmoil and ceaseless noise. We are witnessing the madness of today, a madness scripted by leaders and masters who have lost their way. I do not have to dip my pen in blood to portray the void of imagination that brought our world to sandless, chaotic shores. Rastafarian, you strummed your guitar to songs that lifted good souls and ushered them to the verge of light, songs that touched the children of many suns, making them see their beauty. You sang to free their minds that were enslaved in yesterday’s chains. Say I to you, Rastafari, the cuffs of antiquity cannot bind children this day. They move across another space. I bow to you, Reggae man.”
“You’re the Bard from Avon. I, the Rastafarian from Jamaica. I sang to touch the hearts of my people. I saw the shadow of mind-benders. But I didn’t cry out; neither troubled my soul for them who knew not truth. I humbly bow to you, Englishman, for your legacy is woven indelibly in cultured tapestries for generations to come.”
“But Rastafarian, the wellspring of your art was as deep as the swirling haze of my time, so I bask in the peace that surrounds me with thanks. No one our ghosts haunt, for we rest in the tranquil sea of remembrance of jewels that adorn the annals of history and will deck the future. ‘Twas not artistes like us who shaped our world, but only a rainbowed canvas of existence we draped, a plethora of lyrical nuances that aroused the curiosity of thinkers and seekers. Yea. The folly devised in lofty places today, causing wars, famine, poverty, and the flight of refugees, is akin to that of our forefathers who had carved out bloody paths to power, conquests, and domination.”
Bob Marley’s wild locks blew in the tropical wind, his face not ghostly but radiant under the clear blue skies.
“Peace. How she grovels around in rags at plastic feet. Behold the allure of her smile when art celebrates her day. In the confusing versions of the day, quackery and riotous satire swell the people’s congresses. The Caesars, dodgers and haughty jugglers of this time are confident in their craziness. Man, Shakespeare, I see the vainglorious gestures of influential notables. Big money clowns, shaking soiled hands, wanting more power than their currency can buy. The curtains never close, but the Zion Train coming again as they’re stealing their children’s legacy of the beautiful green world. Wisdom is better than silver and gold, I say.”
“Rastafarian, tis true. And round and round they parade. The people, weary of promises, embrace the rule of tyrants. Few vestiges of gallantry exist except in the sincere mercy of folks with compassion for the poor and the oppressed. Ah, Rastafarian, the Shylocks live on. Therefore, Jew. Though justice be thy plea, consider this, that, in the course of justice, none of us should see salvation: we do pray for mercy; and that same prayer doth teach us all to render the deeds of mercy.”
“Shakespeare. No woman, no cry. Ghosts don’t worry about a thing, ‘cause every little thing is gonna be all right. I see the oeuvre of de Almighty in the contrast of life: the glow of hearty people, their laughter, their prayers—the real music and rhapsody of love. Yeh man. One love.
Only the ghosts we are of yesteryear and, too, the many bards who came before we had opened our eyes and after we had slept. Our labour of love isn’t lost but harvested by good people. Beauty and love are in the harsh desert where the children hear redemption songs.
“Rastafarian. The art has flourished and transmuted like orchids that bring forth novel flowers, clinging to limbs of luxuriant trees in these mountains blue. Farewell, Rastafarian.”
“Bless I. Farewell, bard.”
The ghosts vanished, leaving swishing leaves flashing earth colours under the eyes of the midday sun, signalling joy to the spirits of the blue, Blue Mountains.
