Here we are,

seeking things in book rooms,

Feverish electric places and knee shaking paces 

But the finding of ourselves is in the same seed

It seems up the curving and sewing of our Euro-style skirts 

so that the collars on the men’s shirts cave into stiffened necks

And pretentious coughs for the right thing to do, daily. 

Who are we?

But we are the sun’s children, 

boiling from the volcanos mouth 

Spitting out the truths, each by each, burning 

One by one, we are blinded,

This island we found sitting here alone

Waiting for our long discovery

breathes in the stars and moonlights

and exhales tears of our children, from dusk to daylight

that to seek us so suddenly, 

would be to the eye of the lunatic,

a simple gesture, like a plastic bag, a loiter, a lie, for

we are now no better than the broken fire

In the moody matchsticks on a stormy night…