NaPoWriMo # 45 Despierta Boricua, despierta!

Epistle to future poets

Poems are long avenues

where our burning rage marches.

Everywhere the crying,

everywhere a black wall besieged.

Could our poetry be a solitary column of dew?

It has to be perpetual thunder

as long as children stare

at a loaf of bread with envy.

There are higher things to mourn than lost lovers:

the sound of a society finally awakening

is more beautiful than the dew,

the glittering metal of its anger

more beautiful than sea foam.

A free man is purer than a diamond.