Paul Lobo Portuges's Page

The Killing Fields
By Paul Lobo Portugés

I cry a psalm a river of prayers
at the cemetery of shadows
when bombs make tombs of the enemy
asleep in their Gods after first rains
birth gold grasses over Darfur’s oil
break winter dead earth as jagged blood
rivers bear witness to whirlwinds of death
these devils shimmering on horseback cleansing
the land of Blacks taking the war weary
girls in the middle of starry night

by three in Wadi Tima three times three
in Kailek because of their ebony skin
“to change the color of your babies” they rape
them and with machetes cut the young breasts
kick the moving fetuses with gov’t.
issue boots one hundred thousand dishonored
daughters cast from the land of Genesis
widowed mothers wandering nowhere
to cry forever one hundred thousand
boys slaughtered bleaching bones in the scorched wind

hungry flies delight in the hot shade
as a bent over wanderer cries “God is great”
remembering the sounds of her dead children
she draws bloodlines in the blowing sand
three for her daughters: teacher dancer seer
heaped into the howling village afire
three for her sons: farmer herdsman poet
feet slit from toes to ankles testicles bulging
from their fly covered mouths their god fearing
eyes open to heaven weeping no more

sincere speeches are made a poem written
Dali Lama blesses the forsaken
as bullets fly each into the other
ignored daily by headlines of oil
as flesh girls lick tv for pretty
and spice boys practice viral games of death
until forgiving earth brings forth fire and flood
that God willing gives birth to black lovers
waiting for the blood of the living ground
with aboriginal mind for love’s song