In Trinidad born to play,
The skies above all gray.
The trees bright now sombre,
Cold the day – December.
No winter just ice hearts,
And death and gunfire sparks.
No more presents, no Christmas,
There love and laughs now dust.
Disappears the ginger,
The Christ child, the manger.
Disappears the black cake,
And the sounds carols make.
Like home with a dark shell,
So was Trinidad the spell.
Prayers of few the light,
Sun’s overshadowed might.
Surrounded the dim seas,
The unreflected gleams.
And souls as if abandoned,
On this once beautiful island.
copyright@2009 by Mark Anthony St. Rose. All rights reserved.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem