In Teguchigalpa
The membranes of the earth rupture wide
The muscles and sinews of the earth twist and tear.
Ten thousand screams of suffering explode.
Bone, cartilege and carcass rent in half.
In villages the milk-soft smell
Of new-born babes is buried
under scalding volcanic ash.
Everything green, or made of flesh burns,
Sears and chokes as smoking trails
Fall from purple skies.
Yet am I still contemptuous of thee?
In our mouths cloys still
The sweet taste of the bitter tree
Yet am I still contemptuous of thee?
Yet shall I dance the punta
And wreathe myself in frankincense.
Mouths will ope their lips
To cough and speak
Still will I fill my belly by the waters of Siloam
Slake my thirst in Engedi?
How am I still contemptuous of thee?
Stand with me on the cllifftop
Hand in hand with other drunkards
Look down upon the deep waters.
Fill up the turquoise
Pools of hebanon
With my poisoned tears.
How shall I know you?
Who are you to me?
Am I still contemptuous of thee?