If you could have one last breath,
What would you scream…

The deserts are clean,
The mountains are pure,
The rivers are veins,
The heart is what you rip out and stomp
Upon whenever the chance opportunes…

Geography can’t corrupt you
Although it confutes us at every turn;
Culture can’t define you
Although it collides with every wave;
Nature is the rock and the sea
And they convince you; yet
That until you battle your belated body upon
Those rocks and currents that
You’ve yet to tempt survival…

The luck of the young poet is to be unread –
The poverty of the old poet is to be read
And to have known the tide.

Pity yourself –
I’ve other things to do.