My people no longer dream.
They no longer fly
colourful kites in the valley
as the hues bedazzle at sunset.
In the moons of mystery
no longer do my people believe:
they’ve silenced goldfinches,
drained fountains
and anxiously
buried their roots and foundations
according to computerised
plans and measures.
For shafts of light in the
sacred temple
no longer do my people stand vigil.
They said:
we have to renew the land
we’ll level it down with
cement mixture.
And down they went rattling the rock,
piercing it with trenches,
smoothing milky orchids
with bulldozers
in arable land.
Where oaks erswhile flourished
they scorched the clary flower
& the early autumn daffodil.
of autumn.
They mauled crevices and shrubs,
buried woods that gave shade,
and defiled them with triggers.
No longer do my people dream,
no longer.
They elected the tower’s conceited heights
of glass and metal,
they chose a priapic mausoleum,
to surveil their soul.
Translated by Patricia Gatt