The Repentant Soul

Here the lines of the leaf were its time of breath,

Here the footprint of the lioness was its time of roar,

Here the colour of the flower was its time of blossom,

Here the water of the pond was its time of abundance.

When the path mourns with bleeding trees,

When the fishes died in their own sea,

When the birds died in their own nest

Is when the chatter head died from their own mouth.

Here the sprouts of the seeds were its time of beginning,

Here the rain of the farmers were its time of joy,

Here the cry of the infant was its time of love,

Here the flag of the sword was its time of victory.

When the vulture circles the dead flesh,

When the frog lose its legs on a tray,

When the soil burns the hand who touch

Is when the soil needs a new hand.