Three dead fireflies. My three children gone.
Burned out. I am alone. The midnight skies
have cleared. I carry my dead daughter’s bone
in a bag close to my heart. My black eyes
do not have time for grief, but my heart does.
My heart is wild, in pain, a child. My heart
cries for blood, follows the laws of outlaws.
But we are a restrained people, our art
hints at our pain which we call beautiful.
I do not want you. I want my children –
no – no – no – back. Sky fire. I am without
hope, love, salvation. I curse my people.
I curse the heavens, they turned my vision
into shooting stars: I’m burning, burned out.