Poetry in English - Puezia na Ingles

New Day

            I

Seeds are scarce, the guinea fowls are alert,
crows and monkeys wait, and the farmer longing
for the rain holds tight his rosary praying.

One month, two; no rain.
One rarely hears sparrows singing
yet men and women carry their hoes
believing in their Patron Saints.

Mid –morning in August
One, two thousand feet above the ground
arriving from the Sahara, swept in by the wind
a swarm of gafanhotos cover the sun light of day
to feed on shoots, stems and bark. 

September is near,
the rainy season begins.
A drop here and there
promises of Azagua bon.

The blue sky dies on the black sand of deserted
beaches, and the clouds bring solitude.
The wind cries at night while crickets chirp.

Early morning the sun rises.
The poor’s hope goes out to sea…always 
the sea, the unpredictable sea…

There is no sound of pilon pounding cuscus, 
the grinder grinding camoca.
Smoke swirls up leaving a taste of machine made 
bread and bolacha.

Children no longer play the game of Cuscus y Asucar,
or make rag dolls with corn silk hair.
Gone the rain. The hoes lie on dry fields.
Gone the fresh smell of corn, but o agricultor teimoso,

the stubborn farmer, digs and drops four corn grains 
in each hole with a smile that glimmers with hope.
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                                       II

If October rain falls with wind and thunder,
I will stop at the farmer’s house, drink coffee, 
and eat goat cheese, for we’ll be celebrating 
good harvest on All Saints’ Day, praising God 
for hearing the sinners’ contrition and saving us 
from corrupted souls who live in their mansions
drinking wine, the blood of hardworking hands.

The poor’s heartbreak will suddenly ease.
On the horizon a rainbow will rise. I’ll hear 
the passadinhas sing over the fields. I’ll run to
the seashore and listen to the fish chanting
in their own tongues, their own holy hymns.

The spores of ferns will turn into flowers, the hills 
into meadows, grass will cover where dust once reigned.
Grape vines will spread. There’ll be no grief for the past; 
the ebb tide will no longer flow and wounds will heal
Like rock stronger than thunder I shall exult in praise.

If October rain falls with a great wind, 
I will paint the flag green and shout
on the island’s summit in my own tongue,
my own Holy Hymn.

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                                                 III

I’ve always had something sad to write about my homeland.
The lack of rain, the poor dying of hunger,
men and women taken to São Tome e Principe 
to work nas Roças de Cacão, the fishermen that take
on the sea and the mavericks who dream of foreign lands.

I’ve spoken of the islands’ quarrel with the sea, sometimes 
sinking boats and leaving on the sand shreds of hope. 
The sea’s unrest, the cruel flirting of the rain; 
This is the islands’ misfortune. Our misfortune.

I do not forget, so I sing. But, I want to sing a new song.
 
Why this stubbornness? Why think and write
Nos Somos os Flagelados do Vento Leste. 
Why does the wind always blow from the East, and the sea 
rarely fill up fishing boats, or bring goods inside bidons di Merca? 
​
Will the wind blow in another direction? 
When will the morning star rise? 

I have not come too late, too late to sing- sing a new song. 
The lighthouse will guide me to port, and in the swells of the waves I’ll rise victorious and join in the mermaids’ serenade of Cesaria’s Mornas on the dock of Mindelo Bay,

Sing Ilha do Fogo, Terra Ditosa, on the pinnacle of Fogo’s volcano. Hear Mornas di Eugenio whispering in my ears while strolling on the sand of Praia D’Aguada.

Yes, I want to sing, but sing a new song in the words 
of Alberto Silva, Maio Nha Terra Sabi.
 
I do not want to rest; resting I fear will make me arrive too late in Santiago where I will walk on the streets of Praia Plateau, journey back to my childhood and sing along to Ildo Lobo’s Na Porton di nos Ilha.

I have not come too late, too late to sing- sing a new song.
Sing Rabilona in the suave voice of Tete Alhinho while
savoring the bittersweet salt on the golden sand of Santa Maria,  and I think…es salgadura ki ten dosura  

Listen to Sao Nicolau’s morna Sodad and under the bananeiras sing mornas to Janela and Ribeira di Paul praising my country’s treasures while roosters sing of a new dawning.
Reach the peak of Topona, hum to the sea, and wait. 

I have come to write, write promising stories and sing -
sing new songs this time. 

I have not come too late. I hope I have not come too late.