Poetry

Not begging, 
for a native dream; 
hiding an ocean in the eyes. 
 
The hills were trembling. 
I am going to cross the river, 
of flames. 
 
I am sitting on the dirt floor, 
counting the cowries. 
 
This was my home, 
that was my book. 
 
Playing the game of death. 
 
What had you written, O god 
with your quivering hand. 
I am still following a riderless horse. 
 
Not the least. Any want... 
Give back my blank page.