At Bigga, a Poem

As a member of the community, watching everything going crazy around you, translated…

At Bigga Island, Marianne, I Saw them

Using the Newly Built Airports, the City Hall to Cover up

The Memories of Riots of the Colonies.  I Saw them Using

The Doves and the Decorated Men Dressed in Blue to

Attract the Foreign Tourists to This, Bloody Battlefield of Our Former Years………

At Bigga Island, Marriane, on the Balcony of the Hotel, I’d, Bumped into

A Political Exile from Anceska, a Mild Racist, a Patriot Who’s, Vehement.  “For the Sake of Peace in the Fatherland………”, He’d, Toasted me.  “For Love……”, I’d, Stuttered in Reply, Feeling like I Was, a Weak, a Disabled Runaway Soldier from the Vietnam War

(Marianne, I’m Still Hung up on the Moon, and Your Beauty, the Flesh of, the Anarchists………)

In Bigga, the Terminal Station of My Journey of Loss & Sorrows, Marianne

I Sat Down, to Contemplate the Ghostly Rains of the Histories of Man:

Pushed Open that Window in the Hours of Midnight, Finding Those Years of Suffering

I Sat Down to Think, Before Us, and After

Those Eras of Trials that are Coming Next, with the Millions of

People’s Head, Falling to the Land, a Symbol for that, Good Harvest…………

Marianne, on that Carousel of Our Childhoods

On that Constantly Turning of the Songs that Sung on, My Poem

How Can My Poems of Those Meaningless Sufferings, into Something, Meaningful?

My Poems, Will They only, Prophesize the Shadows of the Hardships

And Tell the Tales of——Love…………

And so, this poet is struggling between losing hope, and keeping it intact, and, in his homeland of Bigga, as the uprising, the coup d’tat, the persecutions of the people are happening all around, he’s, trying, to find the hopes of a better tomorrow that’ll, help him keep going, but he’s, having a little trouble finding it.