A few days, weeks,
Months, years
Have passed.
Still, I can remember.
The naked, exposed,
Trembling turtle
On its dying breath.
Still, I can remember.
The waves lapping
On the hollow shell,
Flesh exposed to the ocean.
Still, I can remember.
The memory of the
Hawk devouring the turtle,
Naked, exposed, trembling.
Still, I can remember.
A few days, weeks, months,
Years have passed.
Naked, exposed, trembling,
I can still remember.
When shall I ever forget
The cry nobody hears
Of a naked, exposed, trembling,
Dying turtle?
*In response to Lucila Hosillo's poem:
I witnessed
the feasting of a hawk on a turtle,
it was upturned and exposed dry
after it had been left by the high tide on the shore,
and I didn't notice it right away;
the soft belly
was unshelled by the hawk's beak,
the white flesh pecked,
swallowed fast;
when I drove it away
the hawk poised for attack,
I scooped sand with my hand, cast it at the hawk,
it minded not;
I threw a stone at it,
hits its back with a thud,
it let go of the trembling turtle
and disappeared in the air.
What would I do with a turtle
still alive, without flesh, trembling?
if I buried it, the worms would eat it
so I let it drift towards the ocean depths;
it was no longer my concern
where the waves would take it;
I didn't want to watch
its final quivering.
It was etched in my mind
that in extreme agony
the dying turtle
couldn't weep, couldn't shout.
On tv one night
I saw the shooting
of a soldier of his friend
wounded and no longer of any use.
When shall I forget
the cry nobody hears
of a dying turtle?