Song and Return

– New York –

Published – 1992 

Samoa, my little country, my beloved among the nations,

locked inside the jaws of the waves, peaceful and defiant –

I sit down now to think of your so many eyes of defeat

and misery,

of your many neglected hearts like insects suffocating in

the heat, and your dying watery mouths, the rosebuds burnt

in the oven of your innocence, your frail murmurs of hope

swallowed up in the political dredge.

 

 

Huge boulder!

wind-thrashed and salty,

I search for your heart in street puddles along the angry

foams of the Hudson, because now I want to lie down in

your arms to sleep peacefully, until your sad dawn arrives,

until your cruel sunlight walks

in with his daggers drawn.

 

 

Samoa, my small fiery country,

mothered by the ocean, plundered by your own native sons –

I cry on your forehead of a hard substance

scarred and bleeding,

I want to hold your tender face to my breast and sing to you

my solitary music, and pledge my stiff surrender –

I want to make you a drink from my fountain of red wine,

my nourishing pain, and I want to nurse your fresh wounds,

to shower you with roses! with jasmine!

and hold your hand in your elemental mourning.

 

 

Land of the foam and of the storm,

the future and the essence are asleep in your belly, where they

do not hear your swollen mouth yelling,

and for each teardrop falling,

for each mouth muttering incomprehending,

for each wing of bird flying alone wounded

from doorstep to doorstep,

your heart winces and thus remains, utterly, viciously tormented

 

 

Now I have come to open your eyes,

I have come to carry you out of the shade that is

weakening your vision,

and put you in the sun in order that you become strong and hot,

your heart pounding with excitement.

 

 

My country, my little mistress,

entirely alone and tossed about by the waves,

immense heart of rock and tough timber,

in whose belly tremendous iron is burning, surrounded

by the soft foam and the snarling fangs of the storms,

your wreath of lush evergreen and the bright hibiscus,

cheekbones of mossed, hard lava –

 I sing your name and your heart on the street corners

of America

because I am yours –

 

 

But because you do not listen to my music,

the news the waves bring open new wounds in my soul.