Ode To Naphtali Morel (1) Poem by Samuel Santana

Poor boy of my country,
wait for me, someday
I'll write a poem to you.
Let me take breaks.
Wait just a moment.
Without you realize,
there is much that I have
observed about you.
More than you know.
I know your heart is full
Of anguish, uncertainty,
Pain, even rage.
I know your story:
wakeing up and seeing your mother
desperate without bread,
shelter, medicine,
alone and privy to dream.
She is your protection,
but you know that you must rescue her.
She has living washing clothe, ironing and
walk through an uncertain
paths of darkness and evil.
Her hands and feet are already painful.
That's whip on your back.
The wind and rain threatens.
Then you understand that in the
ramshackle roof will be a cold long
night with humidity and pain.
With menacing face, dirty waters looks at you,
fetid as the coffins of a
poor abandoned cemetery.
You lift up your eyes and see
around you a dark and infernal abyss:
violence, theft, death,
corruption, indifference, sickness,
abandoned elderly, screams, pain,
anguish and desolation.
Could you escape?
Poor boy from my village,
I want to see hope in your eyes.
Just let me find the right word that
allow appear one day a morning full of hope,
happiness, peace and progress.
I only ask to you to be patience,
to wait until the bitterness of this wretched
indifference pass way and until
you get the redemption.
On day you will see it.
Poor boy of my country,
I have faith in you.

1. Neftali is a poor boy of my church,
17 years old. He lives alone with his mother and brother.