Season of Songs
Darkness has gotten enough from us –
freedom to love, to breathe, and to roam.
The sun rises only to obeisance:
the world has not seen light in a long while.
And you are here, alone, saying to darkness:
I’m open to welcoming any thing, even death.
Mother, I won’t give you away.
Sometimes, violence is the language
grief, no matter the brittleness, understands.
Mother, permit me to be a rebel.
Well, I’ve found a peel for sorrow,
songs about a world free from stenches,
about hope, about us dancing in the rain.
I look at you and see the ugliness of grief.
Whatever has jinxed you shall taste death,
for this time is a season of songs.