My knee rests in
The ever growing puddle.
From behind me I hear
The solders descending the valley
Into my canopied labyrinth.
From above,
Gotas de agua dulce try
And penetrate my position through my umbrella
Of leaves and twigs.
My M1 still works when wet,
But she shows her age as
The moisture makes her moody
And unpredictable.
It's best to stay buried
Behind my wall of violent
Explosions of water
On Nature's green drum.
I'd like to see Dr. Goodall,
Live amongst us.
Could she help us communicate?
Maybe,
This endless barage of bullets,
Bigotry, and blood can give
Heed to the strength
Of the innocence and purity,
Cleaned away by la lluvia.
