BRUISES
                               
A flower pricks.
The chest crushes me flat.
A desire scratches.
An ambition burns.

Let alone snakes.
The heart too, stings.

The sky continually presses down.
My plans' grandfathers breathed their last.
Fathers passed away.
Sons perished.
Grandsons died.
Great grandsons too are going to die.

The footprints
of a truth which has come such a long way,
are all mounds of bruises,
hills of wounds.