I cannot really write of snow,
of tall masts and sails of ships from
or maces used in battle blows.
Can tell you of reddish-brown drops of resin
on the bark of jackfruit trees
and how they remind me of
smaller things of life;
sweat beads above your upper lip
where you have thin, fine hair
a little dragonfly that lifts itself a little stone
tortured by wanton boys and girls
like you and me from our hometown
and those that come out in droves to die when the lights are on.
Minimalists that poverty makes of us,
how can we ever stride like giant figures on the stage of life?
Can only strut on the streets of grime and dance
like painted leopards that need kerosene to take the
colours off that make them
for a few hours shine.