yesterday, in Trinidad
the poinsettia blossomed
its green leaves transformed
into sweet pink of pale rose
on November's earth.
the sky beckons
as a sparsely powdered pie
that makes eating
some distant
dream.
It's good to dream, growing
a blade of grass into vast Steppes
with Cossacks riding in sweet rhythm,
like the fearsome horsemen of the Apocalypse, or
a tame lion of Port of Spain's
Emperor Valley Zoo, becoming
some fierce pride wandering
the Tanzanian wild,
or imagine
that packed
Roman amphitheatre where
the king of beasts mutilates
another victim
of
empire-
when
the Roman Spear of Legions
thrusted fear
and Nero's mad
laugh
scared
helmeted generals.
this was no dream
or even myth.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem