And the land had its own Pentecost.
Each man spoke his own language
But each separate language was the same
As they all understood the inflection of misery.
The street lamps were minims of light
Within the bars of the electric lines
Playing the slow dirge of the drizzle,
Rising in crescendos of steam
From the brown puddles.
Fishermen disappear into the forgiveness
Of the horizon, like sins, like beatified cloud
Scumbling into the eternal night sky
As the sea caught the last
Of the slain, white-faced waves.
A vestige of war sits up in the hills
Like an unmoved rook,
Like the tired head of a war veteran.
I cannot wait for history to seek its penance,
I must offer something to the night.
•••Vladimir Ortega Soyinka Lucien is from St. Lucia, and is completing his freshman year of a BA in Literature and Theatre at the U.W.I. St. Augustine Campus in Trinidad. He is working on a collection of poetry entitled Lacrimae Rerum, and a novel he is calling Fragments.