Perfecta

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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