Gowns are lifted up
to worship the blowing wind,
trousers are dancing wide
all for the rushing wind.
Fertile lands are raped by spilled blood
gushing out of the hopeless souls
who died to survive
all for change.
Days, weeks, months gone past
sorrows occupied the heart's building
for our riches
perished while we beheld it.
Now
let the land receive its portion
of the fertility of the time.
Let the clock be shifted back to days when souls smile.
Let the suffocated minds
be filled with winds of change.
In this powerful poem, filled with strong images, the part that struck me the most is the seeming oxymoron of dying to survive.
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