I lay with the moon that gave birth to four stars,
Her cheeks tire from the cascades of bitter,
sweet laughter that choked her youth,
I hear the pale song decorated with dew,
The sun rising from the west with her teeth barely seen,
The dying twinkles of generations
Fading like a million light years away,
Silent cries of the little child,
Crystallized like salt falling from skies empty,
Upon a land whose ancestors were slaves,
And descendants slaves to ideologies,
Fashioned by men with no soul.
My skin aches of notions painted in sweet tone
And talk, of persons faceless in my mind.
The grave has no place for i, bones, clay
and cold blood have but an end,
Yet my spirit is sightless to men wise.
Perhaps let us trade foolishness for gold,
For of the two,
Neither breed life.
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