Perola

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