Our own world
was rich in silver and gold
or so the story was told
when the morning light
filtered through our hopes
and dreams from yesterday
and Time did not wilt away
our echoing hearts
as we buttressed our minds
like steel welded on steel
and when the cold wind and snow
made mockery
of our tropical attachment
we smirked in exiled derision
holstered in a Brampton basement
many of us looking for a night cap
uncertain or unwavering
like roses and thorns
not knowing how to differentiate
night from day
and candle light vigil
and cream-colored walls
shadowed our existence
spanning cities
from Toronto to Ottawa
a Canadian out-cry
and a brother's strength
molding us with rock-like firmness
in our own world.
(for Cyril, Sept.2/84)
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem