It's not like yesterday,
When the sun refused to shine
And nature's undergrowth
denied hello to the sun
the breast of motherland
refusing to nurse
those she had hatched
the machetes,
the pangas,
all blazing
with rage
to wipe out
those she had known
as own children.
Like a hyena, like a bear
devouring own blood and flesh;
Blinded from repenting from obvious ills, she had fallen
Prey of;
To accuse own child of smelling sweet and meat like a goat.
Beauty plain of grit
To velvet rays
And healing mornings
To a fatherly sun
and motherly night;
Pinnacles built not
From brittle towers and hostile twitters.
To you, I write;
Pinnacle
Of pinnacle
To pinnacle.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem