Diaspora

From this plains i see a diaspora
of brown butterflies fluttering towards
the western side of this little earth
where i am merely one of the stewards.

I could have told them to stay as I still
have a lot of red roses to offer but
they are not listening because the
song the green song of the west
is so enticing.

I ask the eastern wind to sing the songs
of the kabuki and the cebuano guitar
and the nose flute of my great sultans
and the agongs of the Malayan caravan,
but they're not listening

Now, the tides changed. The West wind
is harsh and the trees there too unfriendly.

I see the brown butterflies crushed to death.
Thousands of them.

I sit here weeping, singing the song of the
of the ever faithful eastern winds.
There is no one to blame.

poem by Ric S. Bastasa
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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