a noite de São João

(prm)

by T.P. Wilkinson / June 24th, 2018

Can children,
mothers,
ancestors
(in their graves)
leave the soil,
the toil,
to hide behind
the clouds?
The lyres sing.
Darkness chases
the end of spring.
Heat of hearts,
beat of breasts,
are shared by women,
greatest and least.
Rains, their tears
have left
for fruits.
Pains have fed
deepest roots
Darkness
to the Light
espoused,
fears like leaves
in the wind
love
expose.

T.P. Wilkinson, Dr. rer. pol. writes, teaches History and English, directs theatre and coaches cricket between the cradles of Heine and Saramago. He is author of Unbecoming American: A War Memoir and also Church Clothes, Land, Mission and the End of Apartheid in South Africa. Read other articles by T.P..

This article was posted on Sunday, June 24th, 2018 at 8:03am and is filed under Poetry.