you turn away
like the back hand of God
beckons home a homeless man
waving me forward;
a bent palm dressed as a wagging finger
the coconuts dangle from every branches end
and strike the top of my hampered head
one that feasts on forbidden treats
soiled fruit from rotting trees
is that who you're trying to be?
the emperor to a dying land?
tracing the circles of my dead crops
lay the remains of my peace.