Friday, December 2, 2011The poet will write every tale
The sharp pen can cut through every suffering
In a world of tumult, mad with hope,
We live in our own world, apart.
Never in my life,
Have I betrayed mu integrity,
Escaped from myself,
To intercept the pleasure of dreams.
Because my dream
Is my life,
Which in my life becomes my dream,
Becomes the blood of my world.
How many more dusk will my hand bleed?
My love's fair falls, his breast throbbing
and his eyes drooping, but never asking the question
for he knows the world will burn.
"We die with the purple letter," he sighs,
"Because of the stupidity of one or two."
As day pass, love grows rich in my heart.
An iron will grow: away with the colonialists!
Our love united, dark vengeance suppressed,
How I long for bright dawn to break.