My past, the cover of me,
my book.
Offers a look at a
grave.
Situation:
The sand is hot,
The tears cool, yet plentiful.
A red sun fades over the horizon.
over the turbulent sea water,
it is beautiful.
As a set of melodrama, horror, etc...
It tells not fiction,
but truth
Of a youth following,
a shadow drowning
in the blood of yesteryears,
the battle of today,
and the bottles of 2morrow
Hence the cycle called time.
My shadow's tears pour like un cyclone.
during the Haitian August:
The trees leave their root.
The shacks crumble,
and the chocolate colored habitants dash for shelter.
The dirt, moist with hunger
yearns for corpses, not seeds.
When the mourning comes, and the sun peeks
To sea
if all is OK. My shadow runs.
The sharks turn away.
(Even they want not a hungry child).
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