This misty cloud full of rain,
Cannot deliver it's point in pain,
Unless you watch it, for in it stirs
a new born.
Nefarious clouds, like sad news come suddenly,
This laden cloud could bring some.
Seen way up it gets near.
Like a silence all its own it lets droplets
fall on your nose.
One drop, two drops, and then the outpouring,
that mixes rain with
salty tears. Today you are learning
that freedom is about sweat and tears.
Yesterday in your bushes you fought
your own guerrilla war till sunset.
You, bazooka in hand, you danced and
fought for the future. Now you stand
in the memory of past storms.
This cloud, This reminder carries a story
of your wars, your muscle, your doing
and undoing. In it you dance cross legged,
the freest nightmare they still have to see. Watch it.
If the eye fails you, the heart will not.
Hard as it is, it is leading you to the
center. In this place lies the truth about
shackled hands that need you to free them.
Yours is a guerrilla fight with no end.
Shackled hands cannot line up the soldier line.
Shackled minds too. Workers are needed.
Free the fire and shackle the storm,
for the free stand in their delusion.
Take a stand. Watch this cloud.
It is already sundown.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.I would like to translate this poem