Mango Rain

Crickets announce the night,

and the moon rises, yonder.

No child is heard,

no human virtue seen in darkness.

Candles flicker,

and fires in the streets announce

the advent of burning memories. 

In one instant,

In one sound,

In one motion,

the mango falls from its tree.

Now, the heart remembers:

People dreaming;

Yellow-school-buses painted in colors and fashion trips for two. 

What is American abounds, for pleasure.

People selling, people buying,

children laughing, children crying—all around, stuff.

Inside:

Mountains,

Fields of green,

Blue skies,

and Clouds of Fumes.

But always, Haiti—Haití

In Time:

A day full of meetings, a moment full of meanings;

an afternoon with  fresh avocados waiting their peeling.

At the table, a yearning for a siesta—full of resolutions—that never quite comes;

and amidst all the planning, eating and fleeting, a school replete with hope.

In silence:   

Who hears?  What need? 

Yes.

A country dressed in French.

True.

A land void of shoes.

In Kreyòl:

They speak of Marian blue, of Seven Founders, of Ages long ago.

They murmur of rustic portal gates, of solar panels, of steps beyond the roads.

Engineers, architects, teachers, builders, preachers and trucks the same.

In English:

It all sounds so good and proper, like promises that come and go.

Like the dollar that changes lives and kills the soul.

Like the gods of Christians and Africans ancestors, foretold.

No Voodoo or can’t do.

Just you.

There, in the absence of light,

judgments drop,

and wisdom fails.

Only they can truly see and tell. 

In one instant,

In one sound,

In one motion,

The mango falls from its tree.

No rhythm, no words.

No promises, no lies.

No culture or gold.

The morning will come,

the children will sing,

Haiti, Haití how I seek your peace;

please send  me your mango rain tree.

~F. Javier Orozco, SFO, PhD

 Copyright © 2009 by F. Javier Orozco, SFO, PhD