"mimi" poems
little ladies
than dead exactly dance
in my head,precisely
dance where danced la guerre.
Mimi à
la voix fragile
qui chatouille Des
Italiens
the putain with the ivory throat
Marie Louise Lallemand
n’est-ce pas que je suis belle
chéri? les anglais m’aiment
tous,les américains
aussi….”bon dos, bon cul de Paris”(Marie
Vierge
Priez
Pour
Nous)
with the
long lips of
Lucienne which dangle
the old men and hot
men se promènent
doucement le soir(ladies
accurately dead les anglais
sont gentils et les américains
aussi,ils payent bien les américains dance
exactly in my brain voulez
vous coucher avec
moi? Non? pourquoi?)
ladies skilfully
dead precisely dance
where has danced la
guerre j’m'appelle
Manon,cinq rue Henri Mounier
voulez-vous coucher avec moi?
te ferai Mimi
te ferai Minette,
dead exactly dance
si vous voulez
chatouiller
mon lézard ladies suddenly
j’m'en fous des nègres
(in the twilight of Paris
Marie Louise with queenly
legs cinq rue Henri
Mounier a little love
begs,Mimi with the body
like une boîte à joujoux, want nice sleep?
toutes les petites femmes exactes
qui dansent toujours in my
head dis donc,Paris
ta gorge mystérieuse
pourquoi se promène-t-elle,pourquoi
éclate ta voix
fragile couleur de pivoine?)
with the
long lips of Lucienne which
dangle the old men and hot men
precisely dance in my head
ladies carefully dead
10.5k
He had a red raised bump from writing too long
Now, I feel a proud resistance from my 36 ‘o clock shadow’s frill
Summer cicadas, on Cranfield Road, always sang their song
and the sun set behind our blue Appalachian foothill
Now, I feel a proud resistance from my 36 ‘o clock shadow’s frill
I got to shoot Dad’s 30/30 rifle when I was fourteen
and the sun set behind our blue Appalachian foothill
No other Bayless has ever seen Peru’s countryside eaten in fire and morphine
I got to shoot Dad’s 30/30 rifle when I was fourteen
but Mom has always been a vegetarian (except for some fish)
No other Bayless has ever seen Peru’s countryside eaten in fire and morphine
Cheese, fruit, and silence is our favorite family dish
But mom has always been a vegetarian (except for some fish)
Mimi and Leiron love cats and Pops and I on ink relied
Cheese, fruit, and silence is our favorite family dish
Mimi’s glasses, shaken by sobs and laughter, fell off when he died
Mimi and Leiron love cats and Pops and I on ink relied
his dead lips were painted a shade too red, inexcusably
Mimi’s glasses, shaken by sobs and laughter, fell off when he died
The trashcan in my room was filled with murdered versions of his eulogy
his dead lips were painted a shade too pink, inexcusably
Summer cicadas, on Cranfield Road, always sang their song
The trashcan in my room was filled with murdered versions of his eulogy
He has a red raised bump from writing too long.
Aug 26, 2012
Aug 26, 2012 at 10:44 PM UTC
Moving amidst my Ramona chapter books,
I make out your movement, M, the moody turns
Of your mounts and valleys, the moniker of
Family names, you marked me like a maternal
Emblem of the generation’s matriarch,
You mingled amid reminiscences of former matrons
Maria Helena from the Midwest,
Who crossed the mountains in a wagon,
Madeleine, a migrant from Marseilles,
Who baked warm loaves in San Francisco,
And her own daughter, my Mimi,
Who muttered merde while she drank martinis.
In my own time, you materialized in
Marjorie, my nana, and Maria, my mom,
The women in which I knew you growing up,
Then Molly, who made dreams out of
Magic and Movies and Marie Antoinette,
You embellished my most favorite things.
In my monogram, you aimed my impulses
in your masts’ diametric directions
Towards competence, towards imagination.
In your middle ‘s mysterious compartment I make snug
With magazines and novels and mugs of hot milk.
You nuzzled me in moments of melancholy, then motivated me
To meander among your fundamental family,
The sumptuous L of melt and mélange,
The meticulous N of man or monk or money.
Even W, which matches your mien in mirror
It warped wicked witch while you
Milled maidens and damsels, so I imagined
The mutilation of those two majuscules formed
My image of womanhood. M, Molly Smithson materialized
From a meek mademoiselle into the mistress of mischief.
May 20, 2014
May 20, 2014 at 10:09 AM UTC
My dear Mimi,
Hey baby, are you an electron cause I feel a covalent bond between us. Did you fall from heaven? Because you're the only ten I see. Wanna know my favorite color? Its you. Hey girl, how about me and you go to Tennessee because when you fell from heaven it hurt. Smooth. I'm a genius. All these pickup lines and I'm still on the floor. All these chargers and you're still not a lithium battery. Why the **** is this so cheesy and inaccurate? Maybe its because Everytime I'm near you I get nervous. I start to shake. I start to become anxious. I start to worry. I start becoming self conscious and insecure because I want to be perfect for you. I want you to want me all the way. I want you. I just want to look at you because I see the stars in your eyes. I want to hold you because I feel the burn of your beauty and wonder on my fingertips and up my arms through my shoulders and down to my appendix, because to end at the heart has been said before. I can't explain it. I guess I just...love youuuuu. kissy faceheartpussy
Aug 1, 2014
Aug 1, 2014 at 1:23 PM UTC
Tonight I married a graffiti artist.
This is the third time I’ve been proposed to
at some ***** house party.
This time there was an ordained all-faith minister
on the porch smoking a cigarette. That was enough.
I said yes.
We’re all strictly first-name-basis here, nicknames are even better.
So to him I’m just Mimi. Focused intently on my hand,
he draws my wedding ring with a permanent marker
and kisses each finger as he finishes.
There is a tiny replica of his tattoo on the underside of my finger
in addition to my gigantic drawn-on diamond.
It is my favorite part.
We talk politics and eventually art.
Turns out he’s sort of an amazing artist.
He said he’d put my name up on a wall but I don’t believe him.
Intricate, passionate, and thoughtful.
His smile is adventure.
That’s why I married him.
He asked to read my poetry and in my fuzzy judgment I let him.
Maybe he even liked a few phrases.
And he was polite as a hopped up boy can be.
Getting me home before three,
lending me his jacket without me asking.
I know he’ll forget to call, or that he even has my number.
and that we won’t watch Pulp Fiction
tomorrow.
That I was really just a glorified
snort of some white powder,
I am like all the glitter that fades in the morning
like smiles do, or permanent marker
after a few washes.
Oct 19, 2011
Oct 19, 2011 at 1:24 AM UTC
Chanson.
Mimi Pinson est une blonde,
Une blonde que l'on connaît.
Elle n'a qu'une robe au monde,
Landerirette !
Et qu'un bonnet.
Le Grand Turc en a davantage.
Dieu voulut de cette façon
La rendre sage.
On ne peut pas la mettre en gage,
La robe de Mimi Pinson.
Mimi Pinson porte une rose,
Une rose blanche au côté.
Cette fleur dans son coeur éclose,
Landerirette !
C'est la gaieté.
Quand un bon souper la réveille,
Elle fait sortir la chanson
De la bouteille.
Parfois il penche sur l'oreille,
Le bonnet de Mimi Pinson.
Elle a les yeux et la main prestes.
Les carabins, matin et soir,
Usent les manches de leurs vestes,
Landerirette !
A son comptoir.
Quoique sans maltraiter personne,
Mimi leur fait mieux la leçon
Qu'à la Sorbonne.
Il ne faut pas qu'on la chiffonne,
La robe de Mimi Pinson.
Mimi Pinson peut rester fille,
Si Dieu le veut, c'est dans son droit.
Elle aura toujours son aiguille,
Landerirette !
Au bout du doigt.
Pour entreprendre sa conquête,
Ce n'est pas tout qu'un beau garçon :
Faut être honnête ;
Car il n'est pas **** de sa tête,
Le bonnet de Mimi Pinson.
D'un gros bouquet de fleurs d'orange
Si l'amour veut la couronner,
Elle a quelque chose en échange,
Landerirette !
A lui donner.
Ce n'est pas, on se l'imagine,
Un manteau sur un écusson
Fourré d'hermine ;
C'est l'étui d'une perle fine,
La robe de Mimi Pinson.
Mimi n'a pas l'âme vulgaire,
Mais son coeur est républicain :
Aux trois jours elle a fait la guerre,
Landerirette !
En casaquin.
A défaut d'une hallebarde,
On l'a vue avec son poinçon
Monter la garde.
Heureux qui mettra sa cocarde
Au bonnet de Mimi Pinson !
2.3k
Seven "Wire" girls
One after the other,
Before being blessed
With our baby brother,
Seven "Wire" girls
The first was Elise,
Followed by Annie
Before Margaret made three,
Ruby arrived in the middle
As the case may be,
Not to be left behind
Along came Mimi,
Sweet Stella and Mary
Brought up the rear,
Before the appearance
Of brother D.G. so dear,
All the children
Of Maggie and J.B.,
Now you know as much as me
About our family genealogy.
August 8, 1995
2k
We pulled up in the drive way
If it weren't for my hello kitty flip flops, my feet would've melted into the cracks of the pavement.
Running up to ring the doorbell, and the smell of home rushing through my nose as I am greeted by hugs.
Kicking off my kicks, and letting the beige colored carpet mingle with the bottoms of my feet.
Leaping on to a couch that was stained with strawberry ice cream and memories.
The lace that trailed off the ends of the curtains danced as the breeze from an open winow came to say, "hello."
Splashing in a wading pool while grandma looked through Avon catalouges
sipping lemonade that we made prior, in a Disney Princess Sippy Cup.
I run up the stair into my room; sparkly purple bed sheets cover my bed and I crash.
All snuggled up in an ocean of blankets while everyone else watches the Steelers game downstairs.
As I dose off, half way through a dream filled with pink, grandpa woke me up; he said we were going out for ice cream!
I put on my favorite Little Mermaid shirt on and ran downstairs.
We all pile into an old BMW and start our journey to Sarris.
Nostalgia and city lights fill my eyes with wanderlust.
We park the car and rush to hop in line. When we order our ice cream we sit down in a red diner-hop booth.
Everyone together, MiMi, Papap, Mom, Dad, Victoria, Patty, G-G, and me.
And I don't know if it was eating powdered donuts on Sunday mornings
Or the way that Fresca tasted after eating a happy meal,
but visiting your house
in that small town in Pittsburgh
Is the only way that I can describe "home."
Oct 5, 2018
Oct 5, 2018 at 11:23 AM UTC
My kitchen is yellow
Ugly and faded
My kitchen is where
Late at night
I traded
Crumbs with a monster
A tiny little thing
That grows and grows
With growls and grumblings
She does not like the yellow
And neither say do I
Sometimes the hideous color
Makes her want to cry
So I placate her with cookies
Brownies and more
But my little monster
Throws tantrums on the floor
No amount of Nutella
Can get her off her knees
For my little monster
Has a minds disease
And I’m too busy fighting
That I can not see
The empty cartons of ice cream
Will bring her no true ease
Jul 22, 2021
Jul 22, 2021 at 5:20 PM UTC
A humid night
filled with magic and marijuana
laced pumpkin pie
Capped off with kids
singing Richard and Mimi Farina
on the back porch, alone
An acoustic guitar,
dreadlocks and harmony
found in the sticky air
Electric girl,
Pack Up Your Sorrows
and give them all to me
Put your circuits in the sea,
do what you feel now,
and give them all to me
May 21, 2013
May 21, 2013 at 3:42 AM UTC
You purloin books from
Monsieur Marteau’s large
Library; you like
The slightly saucy
Ones best; the books he
Hides from his wife. You
Can smell his sweaty
Palms all over them.
He has an eye for
You; you can tell by
The way he follows
You around the room
As you slowly dust
And polish around
The shelves, removing
Books and wiping them
Clean. You are very
Thorough Mimi, he
Says, not all maids are
As dedicated
As you, and he laughs
And you laugh with him
Putting on one of
Your pretend blushes.
Madame Marteau has
The face of a smacked
Bottom; her thin lips
Seldom spread into
A smile; her eyes are
As olives in snow.
Don’t be too long with
That dusting, girl, there
Is much to do and
When are you going
To tidy yourself
Up, you are so slow
And slovenly; not
What I expect from
A maid at all, she
Moans, her haughty voice
Echoing around
The hall. You love to
Read his saucy books,
His fingerprints are
On the edges, dark
And oily; his pipe
Tobacco stinky
Smell escapes from each
Page and you as you leave
The library and
Pull the door behind
You with a gentle
Click, you imagine
Him alone in there
Scanning over the
Saucy books; his lips
Drooling, his dull eyes
Being feed ****
Images and his
Sad wife elsewhere, now
Forgotten or too
Busy or moaning
At you; and while you
Snuggle up in bed
At night with the book’s
Thrilling dark pages,
His wife lies in her
Bed untouched, unloved,
Unkissed and cold and
Has been for ages.
Mar 25, 2012
Mar 25, 2012 at 3:04 PM UTC
Butterflies were her favorite thing.
Her pillows had Monarchs in full winged flight
Needlepointed by an artful hand.
One perched on a perfume bottle’s cap
It’s crystal wings composed for rest.
Her jewelry box was full of them
In precious stones and colored glass
In every size and metal base.
If they all rose in magic flight
The air would shine with rainbows.
§
Today I found a tiny golden brooch,
Set with green and yellow stones
With tiny diamonds for the eyes.
It was dropped by someone rushing home
From entertainments where I do my work.
Will it be missed and my phone ring,
Or is this a message from my Mimi.
The minute that I saw it
She was in my mind
As gentle as the butterflies she loved.
She settled on the flower of my heart
And cocooned the little moth of me
And wrapped it up to metamorph
Into the unique butterfly I will be.
ljm
Feb 12, 2017
Feb 12, 2017 at 2:03 PM UTC
I remember Buffalo-
Amherst actually, but the suburb not the college town
My nephew lives in Amherst
But the college town not the suburb
My grandmother lived in Buffalo
Amherst really
and my dad too
My grandfather died there, before I was born
We never said we were going to Amherst
We said Buffalo
Like someone from Los Alamitos might say
they were from Los Angeles
But Buffalo was where grandmother was
But not the fun one
The fun one lived in Gloversville
Which is near Amsterdam, my mom used to tell us it was Amstergosh
Still, Amherst had soft boiled eggs for breakfast
a giant oriental rug on which a small boy could play
but just with his Matchbox cars
and a blow-up Sinclair dinosaur
There was the garage with doors at both ends
Perfect for hiding a car
From brothers-in-law
On a wedding day
There was the giant Chrysler
light green as I recall
In the driveway past which the neighbors lived
with their iced tea with mint and lemon
There were Uncle John and aunt Mimi
Who were like my great uncle and aunt
Except they weren't
Just really close family friends
Uncle John was the one who told me at the age of five
"Always tell a woman you need to leave an hour before you actually have to leave"
We were waiting for Mimi to "get ready" so we could go somewhere
She was taking forever
I do remember Buffalo
Amherst really
But I know there is so much more
that I've forgotten
May 12, 2013
May 12, 2013 at 11:17 AM UTC
^~~~~^~~~^
poets are in love
with things of pathos fair
the lure that draws the moth
to the flame's despair
the insect caught in amber
the mateless bird that sings
the colors of the sun that's died
the fairie with no wings
the gnarled, lifeless tree
grass o'r grave's slight swell
the stream that's choked with bracken
the sound of empty shells
the sweetness of the voice
that sings the doom'd femme
the consumptive Mimi
in Puchini's La Boheme
butterflies on velvet
stricken, gently spread
affixed with a pin
tho lovely, they are dead
the vampire is so sensual
tho their victims end is dreer
the eye that is the brightest blue
always sheds the tear
SoulSurvivor
(C) 2014
Mar 7, 2015
Mar 7, 2015 at 8:35 AM UTC
People of the heart>word>book>screen>
The digital streams scroll before us
Form, electricity, ai
Form, energy, intelligence,
biomimicry, they cried
(Is consciousness the code/key we seek?)
What do we do with our silence
In a world populated by sound
Are we bound to making noises
Or should we liberate our voices
By refusing to participate at all
Apr 15, 2018
Apr 15, 2018 at 12:05 PM UTC
Do not stand at my grave and weep,
I am not there, I do not sleep,
I am in a thousand winds that blow,
I am the softly falling snow,
I am the gentle showers of rain,
I am the fields of ripening grain,
I am in the morning push,
I am in the graceful rush,
Of beautiful birds in circling flight,
I am the star line of the night,
I am in the flowers that bloom,
I am in a quite room,
I am in the birds that sing,
I am in each lovely thing,
Do not stand at my grave and cry,
I am not there,
I have not left.
Mimi never left us, as she is everywhere
Nov 14, 2014
Nov 14, 2014 at 8:17 AM UTC
(from "To: Mimi Romanelli"
~indebted to suggestion of
https://hellopoetry.com/MacGM/
for filling me up one of the trillions of missing datapoints
in my slowly diminishing insights & missing knowledges
<>
"I am happy, Dear, to have walked with steady faith on the waters of our uncertainty all the way to that island which is your heart and where pain blossoms. Finally: happy."
from the poem by Rilke
"To: Mimi Romanelli"
see notes
'~~~'
so worthy of my/our attentions,
his reflections on loss, grief and mortality,
for in the natural course of this poet's story,
the interplay of this shopping list of preoccupations,
foremost on this temporal frontal lobe in these waning days
of my perhaps, last summery summary,
that falls upon your eyes with
my guilt that you have clicked upon
this e~pistle, in and un~
tentionally & tensionally
thus demanding & tendering post-haste
my apology
so be advised, be learned, and query why
an essay on ending mortality should be
be finished with a concluding a
"Finally: happy."
by breaching this poet Rilke essay,
one discovers
this poet sees through the storms of his preoccupations,
"the red of his blood,"
because he loves
another human, being,
so many would agree,
yet so few are so certain,
as Rilke,
and yet,
"*It is still always that death which continues inside of me, which works in me, which transforms my heart, which deepens the red of my blood, which weighs down the life that had been ours so that it may become a bittersweet drop coursing through my veins and penetrating everything, and which ought to be mine forever.
And while I am completely engulfed in my sadness, I am happy to sense that you exist,
Beautiful. I am happy to have flung myself
without fear into your beauty just as a bird flings itself into space. I am happy, Dear, to have walked with steady faith on the waters of our uncertainty all the way to that island which is your heart and where pain blossoms.*
Finally: happy."
<>
Writ the last week of August,
and the first of September
2025
Sep 2, 2025
Sep 2, 2025 at 12:49 PM UTC
Last night I held a dinner party
The boyfriends smoked on the balcony
while the girlfriends cooked.
I orchestrated three courses:
spinach salad,
lemon rosemary chicken and mushroom cream risotto,
and strawberry pie.
We even had three whole bottles of wine to match each one.
It takes a sophisticated finesse to throw one of these things,
the mess of an apartment is filled with wine-tipsy giggles
and shouts of "look I'm domestic!" when the chicken comes out of the oven.
We set the table with a white cloth and tried to match all the plates.
To sit with friends and food,
I feel, are the two most important things in the world.
We gathered at the table but we did not pray.
Instead, a toast!
To friends like family, job offers on both coasts,
boyfriends, girlfriends, to be so lucky in love,
to little Mimi, she's done so well here. For those
graduating, we're sad to leave, for those returning
we look forward to another year
with her cooking!
May 15, 2012
May 15, 2012 at 1:40 PM UTC
It is a warm summer night
I am 8 years old
My bare feet are stained
Caliche rock white
A remnant
Of hide-and-seek
I am alone
In my room
My sisters and cousins
Are playing games
In the room next to mine
My family is outside
Papa's laugh
Infectious
Through the open windows
The scent of barbecue
Permeates the air
I am still full on sopapillas
Shared with Mimi
After soccer practice
And smuggled candy
It is a warm summer night
I am 8 years old
And I am happy
©KNL
Jun 19, 2023
Jun 19, 2023 at 6:18 PM UTC
I am from a Saturday afternoon living room overflowing with the sounds of Fleetwood Mac, John Lennon and Bob Dylan.
I am from home cooked meals, roaring laughter at the dinner table and short tempered Italians.
I am from Frank Sinatra singalongs, Lifetime movies and swimming lessons from my Mimi.
I am from my Pop’s war stories, tomato picking and ***** jokes.
I am from the grandparents that didn’t want my dad and the grandparents that did.
I am from the stoic grandmother that wasn’t involved in my mom’s life and the deadbeat grandad that didn’t seem to exist.
I am from the ten years of Catholic school, plaid skirts and polo shirts.
I am from spoon-fed customs of Catholicism every day except (coincidentally) Sunday mornings.
I am from rose scented mornings because of regretted whiskey words from the night before.
I am from words muttered impulsively, apologizes not offered graciously and too many family nights turned into family fights.
I am from cigarette infused hugs, plastered smiles and “I’ll quit tomorrow”.
I am from twenty-six years of handholding, couch cuddling and kitchen dancing.
I am from goodnight kisses, chocolate chip cookies in my lunch and red heart emoji’s in a text.
I am from love and anger and happiness and remorse.
I am from memories in the making and a future unknown.
Nov 11, 2015
Nov 11, 2015 at 2:09 PM UTC
Not down to my shoes
They love me when I walk into a room
There's applause and shouts of MIMI
I can't help it
Party girl
I should have studied for life tonight
Instead I just left the book outside
Like the new telephone directory.
You know once, I walked past it on my door mat
For weeks until my Momma decided to come home
And read every single word in that phone book.
When I say you dont know **** about this life it's true
I'll sit out here all night to tell you so
All the time I think of that one way to escape
I always said I'd be dead before I could have this thought
I always assumed some catastrophic accident would take me home.
Isn't it up there? Because I can't find home here.
Apr 15, 2012
Apr 15, 2012 at 2:05 AM UTC
when Mimi died
I stayed in my state
dug in the earth
loving her well
looking skyward
to see comet beauty
true face of owl
body papoose wrapped
again
birth I celebrate
Sep 13, 2014
Sep 13, 2014 at 2:34 AM UTC
We went out to dinner and you ordered my favorite
when it came, we switched plates
because you knew I’d change my mind.
We walked into your friends house looking for some beer
instead they pulled out a sweet little baggie
filled with don’t-say-it-out-loud-named drugs.
Everyone gets big stupid smiles watching Rodger
cut it in lines on the table.
I’m trying to tell you with my eyes that my heart is beating faster
than it’s supposed to
that I am in no way comfortable here
please please take me home *********
and you told my eyes out loud,
“Yeah but I’m gonna do it anyway.”
(Full blown panic attack. It’s what you do to me
baby.)
Leaning over the table like you’re about to get ******
(that was mean, but I am mad),
inhale deeply through that roll of paper.
I’m watching you sourly from the couch
whispered into your ear
“when you come down, you’re taking me the **** home”
(this entire poem goes in The Swear Jar)
instead we had makeup *** upstairs and
I flirted with all your friends.
I guess it got later. The party started going,
some Taylor kid’s speaking in my ear
“That boyfriend of yours, does he love you?”
“Not at all” (I’m a flirt but at least I am honest)
Told me to call him when I shake off the loser.
How can I shake off this loser?
How could I give away the boy (man?) who orders
my broccoli cheddar soup
so we can switch bowls
after my disillusioned moment
of chicken noodle wanting.
He carried me to bed again, and held me when I woke up
crying.
We listen to Neil Young in the car on our way out to the woods
he said
“What a sad man…his Mimi went away.”
running his hands through my hair.
This is my excuse:
you don’t know a person, until
you have gone through their medicine cabinet.
They say.
Mine have prescriptions
You’ve had to find yours yourself
to find yourself. But now I think
it’s time to grow up, or die real young.
It’s not my problem.
I think I maybe should stop it with this
problem.
Jan 24, 2012
Jan 24, 2012 at 10:53 AM UTC
I heard that you were feeling blue,
So here's a little poem for you:
I light up every time I see your smiling face,
You waltz through life with such grace.
I wish you could wrap you in paper and lace
and send you to a special place.
Where you and I could play the day away
Picnic and sing and I could say
"I love you" and we'd stay
Until we're both ready to face the day.
Although that place is just a dream,
despite all that, it would seem,
that from our heads can stream
just such a place that we will deem
Our place to be.
Just you and me.
And we'll go sailing out to sea.
Later, have a cup of tea.
No worries and no fears.
No stresses and no tears.
No anger and no jeers.
Just sunshine and wooden piers.
Although I can't see your face,
come meet me in our special place,
Our place to be.
Just you and me.
Our little haven by the sea.
Feb 24, 2013
Feb 24, 2013 at 3:37 PM UTC
Mtu mweusi mweusi, katika mwezi mkali wa moto,
ameketi katika kivuli cha mti wa Baobab.
Majani yaliyomo mara moja
walikuwa kavu na ukame,
waathirika wa upepo wa mabadiliko.
"Wazee, wananiita zamani." Alidhani,
"Majira ya joto ya sabini yanigeuka kijivu,
lakini mti huu wa Baobab ulikua mrefu na wenye nguvu
Wakati majeshi ya Kirumi yalipitia njia hii. "
Mzee huyo alitafuta matunda ya baobab
na akaingia kwenye hali kama hali.
Alikuwa katika hali ya akili;
Sio usingizi, sio macho kabisa.
Aliposikia sauti: "Nina kiu." Ilisema,
Ingawa alikuwa na uhakika alikuwa peke yake.
Ilionekana si sauti ya binadamu:
monotone kavu ya ubongo.
"Kwa vizazi, wanaume kama wewe
Walitaka makazi yangu kutoka kwenye jua,
Lakini sasa imekamilika; nchi imeharibika
Na mimi nina kufa, mdogo. "
Mtu mzee alilia kusikia maneno haya
Kwa maana miti hizi zinapokufa, kama lazima,
Wao huanguka juu ya ardhi yenye ubongo
Hivyo haraka kurudi kwenye Vumbi.
"Dunia imebadilika kwa wewe na mimi,
Upepo ni kavu chini ya jua.
Ninasamehe ulimwengu wa wanadamu
Kwa maana hawajui waliyofanya. "
Mtu mzee aliamka na mwanzo
na akainua na miwa yake.
Alilia kwa kufikiri mti huu utafa
lakini machozi hawezi kuchukua nafasi ya mvua.
Jun 21, 2018
Jun 21, 2018 at 7:50 AM UTC