196

In these quiet moments when the only

sound is the light, rippling overhead like
a distant cascade, you murmur, lonely,
resigned to face up to fate's counterstrike:
You were lovely at the vanguard, fragrant
like a sylvatic forest where slaves found
freedom, if only for a while;  flagrant
delights linger like liquid on scorched ground:
They sent the dogs at them, the painters too,
who could paint the paisaje into fiefs;
each great deed you've done, they must now undo,
as they throw your saviors to the live reefs;
Soon enough, they will repaint the coral,
wear it on their heads and call it laurel.
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