The taps are dry. Flowers fade. No side of the moon wakes my pleasure. Never out of problems, never short of problem-solvers, the nations ache. I bid them to gallantly endure the thorny tide of this season. But what shall we do with these windows hoarding bitterness in black? What shall we say to the hungry children? Whom shall we show the shaggy cows, lean goats, and diseased fowls of our lands? Interruption. The rain has just arrived with a large horn to change my tune. I notice in my inner eyes that there is breaklight on your lips which you call lipstick. Light filling up the frame of your face. Look at my hands. Don’t you know the kind of dance I can dance? Look at my hands. When will our world with no name have a name? On the platform where politicians no longer hawk their wares of verbose promises, we agonize over our desperation. We rage against falsehood masked and deception sheathed. Are we not the children of maddening loins cursed with dark dews and bloody lizards? Know the context: the struggle of drained bank accounts and daggering desolation thrashes us. All our words, all our sounds, made and unmade, lengthen like trees in the living space of tramping moments. Our destiny speeds through the hardwood paths of the day to the pain that leads to another pain. In the caravel beneath the air, our feet grate on the daring roar of nations as shrieking mobs run from city to city. The hunger that meanders among our mountains has no ticket to the isle of grace. For starvation alone cannot fit into the spaces beyond ringed lights where youthfulness limps and innocence dozes. Like thrushes starved of songs, we cannot thrive on countless sips of nightmares. We cannot live in the accord of flesh and soil. Ah, what misery gets the day when hope does not guard the mind.

© copyright Trafika 2015