My words, I still cannot swallow them.
But to show the truth and to search for it
I continue: I am like a pumpkin.
I have been planted in the middle, in the garden
Like a pumpkin I will creep on the ground
With both sides, to climb the trees of wisdom.
And strangle all the weeds.
Without fear, without history to go back to, I shall attack
The deeds of human beings that still are breathing.
Then the time
Will come 
            I will deliver fruits
            Big, small
            Good, bad
The time will arrive, when the experienced people will come
To weed me out with the hoe of ink.
The vegetables will not pluck me.
The time will come, for the pumpkins to have wounds/to be cut.
The dirty and clean ones will be ladled
And I shall go into the water pots of every town field.
Children will play with me in their hands.
They will drop me down and split me open.
But the seeds, the seeds will stay.
            I know
            I am not in danger
            The right reader
            In the town and in the field
            Analyses [also: cleans] me well.

Then will come that time
When they use cups of gold and glass
They throw me angrily into corner,
And I will be behind time
But when they forget that the ancestors
Used a calabash and vegetables
The origin of their culture
They will have thrown it away.
Remember, remember, remember.

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Comments (1)


amazing poem. really moving. thanks

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