(30 September 1993)
It's a habit by now
head bent
at four a.m., the birds wake
to complain
they do this cackling in
forgotten dialects of the poor
yesterday's count was thirty-one-thousand
as if longing for more
the morning news will bring
more bodies to the surface
counting is one way
of thinning the eye
to a diet of faith
someone says if there's divine justice
it favors solid foundations
mud & rock slip through God's fingers
we can discuss this at length
but if prayers are shouts
pain is the lost argument
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem