The Traveller Speaks Of His Birthplace Poem by Kirmen Uribe

In our desert there is no sand.
There are growing boys
who cross the steel barriers and
play soccer on the thruway.

There is no water in our sea.
The waves were a thousand blue horses.
Once, with a thousand soldiers
they were carried away.

In our desert there is no sand.
But there's a giant wall of stone
which, though we can't see it,
has encircled us; closed in, close.

There is no water in our sea,
or any wake from the past.
Our futures recline on the beach,
big with tears and broken mirrors.

There is no water in our desert.
There is no sand in our sea.