A man is in prison
He is not waiting,
he has no time to lose,
He becomes a poet, a painter, a musician.
He invites the butterfly of words
to the trance that makes roots grow.
He refutes the alias of colors
to allow the white of the canvas
to liberate its embedded demons.
He revives the scream of silence
to orchestrate the symphony of giving

the enemies of my people
almost murdered the poetry in me
so much did I scream scream scream
so much did I bleed bleed bleed
scream and blood had become my poetry
but now
I want it to be a spark
that might ignite the whole plain
I want it muscular, a whole weapon
I want it to be streets and squares
I want it to be millions of throats
pouring out hatred
of oppression