You have been patient
like the rock at Amtadao waiting
for the rains, so it could grow moss
and gather water to slake the thirst
of the sunflowers of early summer.
You would stay awake
until I come safely home, a wayward
juvenile reveling in excessive freedom:
admonished by gentle rebukes
and frowns that veiled your love.
When I am home, you are home.
I miss your songs of salidum-mai,
your graceful sways of the tribal dancers.
The dirges of the old women have taken over,
mourning stories of your goodness.
You smiled at me in your deep sleep
as the eternal gardener planted your dreams
into the earth, crowning you with a rainbow
as I wished you well in your journey.
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