Cimarrón: See My Run (dedicated to the Saramaka)
Never is the mind so tested as when
the spirit throbs and the heart is quickened
by the dark pulse of dreams always undone
due to the deeds of the poisoned, sickened:
Because that mind must take care not to bend
like the creek that curves towards water thickened
by the murky earth where its charge will end
where the cayman spirit lurks, unflinching:
But tests are for passing, and your mind flies
through sky and/or sea, and the swamp is dead
beneath the jets of your wake, clear ripples
float, wafting waves of smoke, and you dribble
Down the dreams of your blood, which nobly fled
from the sitting race where life itself lies.
urbansonnets 