A Poem There Is
(Poem — modified English version of “May Tula”)
yes, poets of an enslaved race
a poem there is
in crawling ants
on scattered sugar granules
in wriggling worms
on flesh decomposing
or in flies flirting
on hands with sores oozing.
also a poem there is
in the bleeding heart
of one derangely forsaken
by love’s unfathomable angst
with besetting shadows of loneliness
cold as the harsh winter snowy wind.
yes, there is also a poem
in confused, wandering ideas
in the dark, thick foliage
of fantasy and ignorance
or wallowing in the murky brooks
of emptiness and elusive dreams.
yes, also a poem there is
in the moon’s luminous face
in the stars sparkling
on a firmament serene
yes, a poem there is
in the hissing
of bamboo plants
or in the tender caress
of the gentle wind
or in the surging waves
smacking the shore.
poetic also is the solitary flower
in a long-forgotten grave
and poetic also are the tears of morning dew
on yellowish, desolate blades of grass.
a poem also there is
in feverish, quivering loins
in sudden lust’s ejaculation
on an orgasmic, howling night.
but poets of an enslaved race
more poetic is a mother’s grieving face
than the staring full moon in the sky
her son abducted by military brutes
now a bit of bone or slice of flesh no more
desaparecido like a lonely
bursting, evaporating bubble
in the parched earth of despair.
more poetic are the tot’s mournful eyes
than the twinkling billion stars
his stomach devoid
of milk and bread
in it only air dwells.
yes, more lyrical is the music
of those crucified by tears of grief
fed with vile of injustices
chained, tortured by the demigods
in thick prison walls
of humiliating miseries.
yes, poets of an enslaved race
more poetic is the poem
in the creaking bones
of an emaciated worker
in cruel factories of greed
more poetic in the dripping sweat
of a sacada in vast sugarcane field
yes, more poetic
in the cries and lamentations
of victims of an exploitative few
yes, poets of an enslaved race
more melodious is the poem
in the cadences
of rebellious feet
on the heaving breast
of the streets of protests
more poetic
in the sonnet of gunfires
in the elegy of bombs
in the epic of struggles
of the exploited class.
yes, poets of an enslaved race
what is more sacred and pure
than society’s abominable realities
and the miserable lives
of the masses long-oppressed
longing every minute to be free
from bondage and poverty?
