Brittle Leaves.


My great great great gran’mother.
Where are you Rosanna?
I thought when you die, you remain
to protect the children. I thought
in every shadow you would stand.
I dreamt Rosanna wore her ring.
She passed it to me saying; “I must go.
The shadow is for you now.” How can
I belong to a gypsy and not understand?
Gran’mother you left too soon.
I’ve become a brittle leaf, Rosanna. I
cannot protect the children. They die
each day. Some are battered to death by
a parent, some by a stranger, some by
a rapist, some by a drug infested piece
of scum, some by a car, some by
a criminal who should not be here, some
by a friend, some by a soldier, some by
a priest, some by a gun, some by a bomb,
some by a war, some by a plane, some
by a hand, some by a fist, some by a
religion, some by an idea, some by
typing porn, some by smoke, some by
drink, some by neglect, some by my
inability to take the ring from you
Rosanna. I hear you married a gypsy.
He’s here, in my blood. He’s still here
Rosanna. How can I raise his arm to
defend us? There is a dark, insistent,
frightening, cloud on the horizon and
the fields are crumbling, the children
will fall silently from view.
Ek-keri, akairi, you kair an,
Fillissin, follasy, Nákelas jân
Kivi, kávi,
Stini, stani, buck!


◄ hour-glass

Tourdion ►


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