WHO ARE WE?
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…