Mornings do not rise
Above this leafy prison.
Time hangs midnoon
Over sharp sugarcane leaves,
Striking against the downpour
Of cruel sunrays.
All the sounds enclosing
Are the rustle of the peering enemy
And the striking of our espading
Against the earth’s unflinching deadness,
Whose parchedness is under our tongue
And whose flame is under our breath.
There was nothing else
But the smell of baked soil
And blood, blood, blood!
