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.