The Uncontacted
No son Peruanos.
No son desaparecidos.
No vienen más y no vuelven.
A bright white
plane flies over
they shout point
they throw stones
(sorry but it’s
not their god)
open eyes wide
the bird flies away
three months later
push a boat down
the throat of the
big mother river
a world of stories
never sees a cliff
eyes open wider
her hidden people
now they learn
they should have
stayed in the forest.
© 2015 Rob Schackne
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