The last time I heard the name of my country,
was when a radio station was jeered by the
gracious message of a white Hawk.
The name etched on our skin
was given not when we die,
but when gold-diggers turned gravediggers.
The boy who brought all the coffins was still alive
only because his skin could house millions
of bullets before the pillar of his breath can be broken.
After the burials, he raised a green totem
in the middle of the graveyard,
he named it nameless.
On the graves were maple trees that gave
shelter to the crypts with their ever-gracing
shadows. We were the fertile land that grew
them, now they respect to us.
As for the boy, migrants named the necropolis
after his name, Hope. Every morning,
before the sun caresses the sky,
he shouts from the womb of the graveyard,
“Dead bones shall rise again.”

 

 

 

 

 

Photo by Yoksel Zok on Unsplash