Foundation, NJ U. S. A
The forgotten women, they weigh heavily and
squeeze the small openings of my heart and
always make me cry.
The dust of forgetting and past has covered
their bodies and hides them from the memories.
Forgiving, dynamic, lasting and loving women
innocent like the youth, like the youth.
I rub my head against the faraway shrine of
thought and see them each who move by, pale and
gaunt.
We move forward in a aura of fog, with eyes wet
from warm tears from the mountains and the
complaints and the repeated crying of
destruction.
The woman stares at my existence and follows the
lost dreams through calm blinking, quiet.
My dream, my mother's dream, my grandmother's
dream, the women of pain, the women of agony,
patient women who don't complain and travel the
paths of history, quiet, adrift.
From the beginning to today, passion creating
women who are alive, passion creating women who
are alive who play the drums with their seeking
and dynamic hands and feet and lose a new image
in our dreams.
The women of yesterday, today, from me to us,
the women of forever.
