The Broken Rest
What of the girl sitting next to him,
blood and blood,
the same empty stare,
The coagulant dust, like mud,
drying
against these leather orange seats.
"My baby, my baby,
tafali, tafali alhulu..."
Now what memory will last
of my mommy's sonorous voice?
Will she return like waves in the night?
Shall I wait forever?
Copyright © Clarence Oubre | Year Posted 2016
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