Sunday, February 28, 2016

POEM: "The Uncontacted"

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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