poem poems


In days when they still owned what nature had,
they used their bows to reach the prey on high
or spotted it in rivers swirling by,
without the thought of days to mourn ahead.
These forest warriors were born to heed
their gods on lands that hid a shine of gold
but brought invadors hungry with a cold
desire to kill to saciate their greed.

Today those indians are gone, their lands,
once lulled their hearts but now their bones belong
to museums, and crowd the stands among
the shapes of clay that speak of skillful hands.
None have remained to show their father's faces
and ruins tell the stories of their races.


Poems: A page of Rosa Clement´s site
© (1999)