A still, gray shroud
Lays across the shoulders
Of Luperon.
Its Indian soul
Cupped gently
In the hands of old fishermen.
Mountain mists settle
Carefully,
Like the wordless whispers
Of a sobbing child,
Or a good friend,
Dying.
Bushy arms
Hug the sea,
And seek its succor,
While ancient memories
Drift sleepless below,
Clung by mud,
And Haitian ghosts.
Oh Luperon!
Your frail heart beats lightly
These mornings,
Slight fingers tapping taut skins.
Are you gasping for breath?
Or only sighing?
Your green hills weep
Remorse.
Wake your spirit!
Rise out of the mud!
Spread your cold, creased hands
To the warm Spanish sun.
Open your arms,
For there are newly lost.
Their desperate yearnings
Thicken the breeze,
Wanderers
Tired and hungry
Come to salve their wounds,
In your calm, dark waters.
Your flame flickers softly
In the gray mists of morning.
James K. Richardson