"Winter in the tropics"
Perhaps, slowly,
as the journey away from grief,
we should begin to reverse our tears
to build
here in these wintered tropics
the igloo of the Eskimos
since the sun’s smiles are eclipsed,
knowing the futility
of the corpe’s fear of the grave;
knowing, too, that out of the grave
of the buried seed
shoots the evergreen tree.
Perhaps, slowly,
like the elephant’s unhurried procreation
we should begin to weave
these discordant wailings into symphony,
these steel times into harmony
to forge the hearth’s tripod stand
to thaw our tropics
for the morrow.
When I read the dungeon-brewed masterpieces
and sip with ears the witful
jeremaids at drinking parlours;
when I see the bare-footed Socrates
standing in shelves, an immortal;
when I contemplate the hunger-drilled
depth of my people;
when I think of every winter
sparking a fire,
I see our every tear
becoming a cheer;
I see the sun returning
from the East hills
to warm our clime.
Perhaps, slowly,
as the journey away from grief
we should begin to reverse our tears.
Truly yours,
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