Hurry, they say –
the afternoon is all a-clamour
& young men and women are scattering everywhere
like discarded leaves
offals on a crossroads abandoned…
The locusts are here
but there is only discord among the afflicted
The carrions are here
they bare their teeth on the silos of our soil
on the baskets of our riches, our pots of oil…
The locusts are landed:
continuous division among the victims
is what the conqueror needs
parasites in stiff khakhi cloth or flowing gown
they eat our harvests and our virgins…
Alone
I stand by myself in the fable
(for one can be lonely
even in a dream) –
the afternoon is like a scream on my shoulders.
Motherland, release me…
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