Born in the red dust of Ouagadougou,
Far from the land her father called home;
Farther still from where the boy she'd love
Even then endured the tragic-joyous
Morph to manhood;
The woman in Ouaga whom God had blessed,
With foresight called her "American girl,"
Knowing she was bound toward
The rain-washed valley where he was born,
To love him there;
She brought her quiet wisdom and her love
And salvation he believes beyond
The power even of his bookish gods--
Shakespeare, Hemingway, Tolkien, Steinbeck--
To ever describe;
Just her being makes me cry
Because I cannot do it justice;
Happy birthday, Maty Bombay!
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