In its hole, the cricket keens
All through the dark time of night.
The sound sears, too hot:
A cry to the moon.
“Moon, you must know, for you have heard:
We suffer.
The creatures succumb one by one, diseased, destitute.
They do not mind one another.
It is time you descended.
Moon, there’s been appeal after appeal:
And from you, nothing.
All who live in this land feel the spasms.
There is nowhere to turn for relief;
In every direction, we slide off the map.
Our hearts ache:
They have been drained of language.
Everyone is fleeing together,
From this place where we once were happy.
Moon, other nations are flowing through our borders;
They see that this earth is gold,
And they seek to make it theirs.
As we crumble,
Our invaders are derisive:
“You will never develop,” they say,
“Yours is a history of blood.”
These strangers are hearty,
And we scatter, like smoke—
Blown from this land, emptied of hope.”
The cricket ends its appeal, trembling with the new situation,
And finds it can do no more than watch
As from the dark, the tongue, the lunge,
Sates the frog as its keening dies.
No comments:
Post a Comment