Anima Kristi Poem by Kris Atta Pappoe

ANIMA KRISTI


It hurts,
This betrayal of pristine dreams,
And the endless unspoken whispers
That grave age and tested wisdom
Have whistled into the wind;
A heart true to betrayal,
Smarting like pepper
In a freshly wound.
* * * *

And counting,
Just counting on languid fingers
Endless times of grief
With graying whispers
From dear matrons grown morbid
With packed anger.
You are like a dream hatched
One season too late
Before the Harvest.