Hurling stones against a mattress,
Faltering our streams
Where we move, to realize
Ourselves, among the naked vows
Before a withdrawn Judge.
He, the love,
He, the cruelty
Of a simple sentence.
Words so simple, yet much for distortion
When the banks of these streams
Can mute them.
My blood flows,
Over a country’s dismal current
To surrender’s feeble edge,
Of the flag, buried in mud,
While tears of soldiers are our nothingness.
She sees me
Walking with a tree in my arms,
Bound to build the forest,
To compliment the egotism, within.
She, the mothers of my woes,
She, the humiliator of my throes
Where winter is my surrender,
As the spring is my laughter,
While a nation buries its mind,
And burns its heart.