Email Poem

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Poem

My name is Pérola, born among thorns beneath steely rocks
By the great Bay, where its sons harvest fish for the government mint against their sweat
The teacher points at my eye for its vile afloat

My grandfather, a serviceman and healer
Many queues for his touch of healing hands far and wide
His sons are warriors of the land walking on his prints
They widely spoke of their virtues against my decadence
My mother's father
His poise of character lives on decades later
Mentions of his nobility in imperfect man
His daughters, my mothers, have lived in dignity and valour
Yet they disdained me an illusion of imperfection

I swim in the lake of rebel
I laugh at the trouble I germinate
Look, they are sweet as lime, hotter than Indian paper
I sit quietly at the bay where I am summoned 
Wavelike broken glasses 
Showers me, piercing every inch of my skin
I brace my agonising pain

My name is Pérola,
A stone. A precious stone.
Am not easily broken
A valuable stone. I cannot be camouflaged
I have a different story to tell
Unique in every season, both spiced and crunchy

My name is Pérola, born among thorns beneath adamantine rocks

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