BY CHARIKA SWANEPOEL
It is undoubtedly the same man,
the boy become more himself,
less planned, outlined, and designed for the scene and sincerer.
His eyes are darker, heavier, and wise with destiny.
His hair is less and less defined, it flows from his face
and gives a different meaning to the now unturned face.
The buoyant boychild Botticelli, no longer throttled in gold,
is grown into a man, robed, slightly rugged, but ready.
Behind him no longer some other man of note
but full strokes, merged with the whole
and a rich green scrawl of a tree.