Valles de Aragua


I like the colour green,

The fresh, bright green of the

Hills I grew up in,

A spring green, the green of baby

Lambs jumping in the meadows,

The green of dreams, impossible,

As the sea green edging the blue

Ocean before the land claims

The space -the natural

Homes of mermaids, some

Would say, or playground,

Where they would sit and sing

Dressed in green algae and

Silvery-green fish tails -but I digress.

I like the colour green,

Coconut green as the hills

I grew up in.

They are black and red today, those hills.

Black by fire, red by death.

No ancient house stands to tell

My story and games; the garlands

I made for the Spring festival; the

Green ones I weaved to crown

My hair, as I pretended to be the

Sea green princess sitting by

The greenish pond.

It is brown, now, the pond.

No one jumps into it anymore.

My house had a green door,

Emerald green, decorated with studs.

They broke it. They burned down the house.

They broke us.

And left dark colours in their wake.

And for a time that felt like years,

We just lingered by, phantoms over the wrecked land.

And then the green came back.

Timid, shyly, unsure if we had enough soul in

Us to welcome it; to work with it; to make it grow.

and expand. The top of the hills is tar and scarlet still,

But the foot is covered in apple green, and rice green,

And lettuce green and avocado green and life green,

And the houses are being erected again, rebuilt, and

In our new home the door is green,

Like a jewel on a queen, outlined with studs,

And we are afraid no more.

Protected by the fresh promise of green,

Of these hills. in which I grew up.



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