25 December 2008

which of us cares to walk
even if god wished
those retching waters where our souls were fished

for this new world? afterwards, we talk
in whispers, close to death
among these stones planted on alien earth.

the ceremony, the careful photograph
moved out of range before the patient tombs,

we dare a laugh,
ritual, desperate words,
born like these children from habitual wombs,

from lives fixed in the unalterable groove
of grinding poverty. i stand out on a balcony
and watch the sun pave its flat, golden path

excerpt from 'laventille' by derek walcott
(this poem is too good)