I seem to be afraid of sharing
My tears with you because
They tastes sourly. I am on the
Bedsit, streaming my last
Favourable dream of hope.
Abusing the eye of a shameful
Cartoon.

My soul seems to be laid to rest,
Like a man in the wealthier
Land of death. My breathings
Were serving my respiration.

I was out of myself to the
Benevolent imagination.
I couldn’t understood the
Blinking eye
Of a sleeping boy I’m the shack.
It’s like the whistle was
Blowing in the dark.

The incomparable abash of a
Prisoned slave the feeling of the
Pain of the bursting pimple.
The plaintive roar of the lion
In the field of pain the infinite
Distance of a weary athlete.

It is the last dream to be cremated
In the shack. The heir apparent
To inherit the prosperous fatherland.
The only hope of a dreaming old
Woman. The overlapping star from
The eastern part of South Africa.
The wild black African overladen
By exquisite wisdom, acceding the
yards of the Cubans.

To grasp the key of my childhood’s
Dream from their hands. To extract
Their doctorate mineral from their
Lands. To be burdened by the
Overflowing cup of victorious.
To be drugged by procaine so I
Could remember not my painful
Scars. My last dream in the shack.