One day, you will be old
And as wounded
As putrefied fruit
On life’s dining table.
Memories of your folds
And your unmet fears
All but faded,
They melted away like ghosts
On the road to
Your home in
Villanueva del Rosario
So you flew far and wide,
And you documented all
As the infernal place cemented;
People love colours
If purposes suit,
Lovers of movement
With a kit and a boot,
But all movements made
Give illusions their root.
You owned the diurnal,
You owned a dispersal;
They made arrests
On Grecian beaches
Yesterday, refugees
On deflating, sinking dinghies
Paid the price of your coat,
And you traded it all
For a soft drink and hope.
Seven Hundred Jisei 