Apocalypse Poem by Fidel Arcenas

Behind these huts, a patch
Of paradise lies, where we chased
Grasshoppers and butterflies; sipped
Nectar from stems of wild flowers.

Today,
This village, genesis of our lives,
Home to our homes, mourns
The death of its river, suffocated,
Our elders say, by a fuming monster
A few miles away.

Fear-laden grief, like apocalypse mist,
Fills our huts, creeps into our hearts;
We strain our ears to catch
The croak of frogs.

Nothing.

We pull our blankets over our eyes,
Not knowing if tomorrow
We live or die.