This is as far south as I go -
another mangroved beach to show
the neighbours when I get back home,
hot sun, cool breeze, black skins, white foam
fingers of sea clutching the land
but slipping backward down the sand.
Driven by unseen forces they return
in vain, unable to unlearn
the constant useless worrying -
a toothless mongrel slobbering
its worn-out, ragged, tattered toy.
This is a thought I don't enjoy.
Here with the time and peace in which to think,
I think of you when struggling on the brink
of life and death, so feebly clutching life,
resigned to dying, slipping away from strife,
too worn-out trying to survive. These memories
revive the bad time when all remedies
were gone. The old heartbreaking scenes return,
the searing plaintive wailings I must learn,
not to forget, but not to be upset
by. No matter what I do, I won't forget
you clutching the bedrail where my hand should be.
The pity and the pathos stay with me
but I must mend my tattered life. Henceforth
I must move on. Tomorrow I go north.
No comments:
Post a Comment