218 - I died in '63; for fifty years

I died in ’63; for fifty years
My spirit has to roam until, once more,
I’ll pour it in a new home, and the tears
I cried at being me will reach their shore.
I’ve flown over the deserts of the poor
Sahara winds and multinational oil
Sierra Leone, guilt, irrational war,
And over Soviet reactor’s boil.
I’ve slept in rocks and walked beneath the soil
I’ve slid past slaughtered seals, swam past whale spears
I’ve hid and watched as daughter turns to whore
I’ve wept raindrops, and talked with python’s coil.
In 2013, when spirit mist clears,
All will be still, all will be white and pure.
Tue 10 Apr 2007