PEASANT’S HOPE FOR EMANCIPATION

a fountain splashes the walls of my heart.

up my stallc of pride and shoots vision like a green leaf

over my budding eyes.

My heart is a redness like the red panic

of the cane and the wind intoxicated

tossing confetti in the air.

Die not great glare

be a symptom

of our rise that we

take to the sky

like the bird or the proud wave.

Soon will be no cloud

on the conscience of

the morning sky

no red

to spill the evening breath.

But lavender

lying on the lips

and song sitting

on the strings of the heart.