I
do not lie above the rest
my
heart is at rest it is beating steady
Jamaica
will always be my home
the
clear blue waters the birds
making
a nest in my roof
the
old man selling fish on the wharf
Saturday
comes and it is church time
I
close my eyes and see my beautiful Jamaica
an
old man is whistling as he walks by
my
vision
an
old man is calling
In
the end I am in Brooklyn, New York,
selling
jewelry on the side of the busy street,
looking
for a way to buy a butter roll,
and
the man at the counter eyeing me suspiciously.
In
my beautiful Jamaica no one thought I was a stranger.
Here
there are strangers everywhere.
No comments:
Post a Comment