Aftermath Again

My son, speaking like a true griot, A body of things rejected By the sinister profile of language Spoke one clear prophecy to the riot's Heart, before he from this world was ejected He named the bagage He carried unbowed in his lineage But did not name the bird With the cold and ominous plumage, Now I wonder if he heard That after his hope was long deferred He is waiting in sleep for a better world. I saw the feathers of the bird A vulture sifting the sky Over swelling carcases, it was all The hurrican had left. My son has left more bereft Than thousand debacles that this day palled, But I will read his last poem again Against the cancer of this pain.