In The Silence Of All These Graves Shall Eternity Begin To Sing. Poem by RIC BASTASA

it is the sickness that
longs for a nest.
and that nest is
too personal, like the one
built by eagles
on top of a cliff, and
made of twigs,
and stones.

the dry grasses are at home
on this humid, and lousy summer.

the black birds in flocks are flying
away. Migration is the answer to their
problem.

what we remember is an island
full of coconut trees inhabited by
monkeys that we want to drive
away even thought they were there
first and in fact
they claim it as their home
handed to them by their
ancestors.

the wooden boat is burned and
the sky is red with our fire.

from far away we hear drums.
the tribes kill each other and
the white men were happy.

there are shooting stars at night.
here, here, no one dies, no one kills.

in the silence of all these graves
shall eternity begin to sing.