His tales depicted to me in gouache,
some scenes from where he’s been.
The delicacies of his motherland
permeate from his very skin.
The eyes that once winked at the
stars, as they peeped ‘tween rows of palms,
replayed to me a tableau
set on shores of lava swamps.
He didn’t hold a picture book,
or a screen on which to demonstrate
the grandeur of majestic slopes
where molten and air escaped.
The chance passenger studied him,
and saw a paradise;
but I had to smoke my lenses against
those hid from a stranger’s eyes.
I’ve never been to his native land,
but his stories animate
the charm and healthy intercourse
of his manner and its climate.
Perhaps his tanned complexion,
lives as a testimony,
that the fire which rises there,
is the same that’s scathing me.
Inebriated by his tales in a cup,
engulfed by his imagery —
I mirrored his portrayal,
with a touch of reverie…
(Like mine) your name is a story
of a thousand years ago,
your smile reflects the wondrous way
your mother shares her soul.
Your forehead, its protrusion,
shows you where you mustn’t go;
but today the compass favored
that out here we get to know
each other, dear stranger,
you brought your country here.
as though the waves that set you
free, has also swallowed me.
And the whispers of the seaside air
rehearsing your history, plays
the music that your virgins
sigh to their lovers by the sea.
But alas, as in the country
in your eyes, the day’s good to go,
and the waves in your horizon,
are more possessive than before.
The sun in old Hawaii, my friend,
is slowly setting now…
Goodbye! Oh dear sojourner,
hope we find that other town.
Ruth V. Mostrales
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