You were obliged
to watch the curse
on the caterpillar,
forced to fly.
It was a stunning spectacle.
The walnut tree scooping
to gather,
the gold of black berries.
Speak up my lord. Did you live
in the ghetto to know the
truth of thatched roofs? Were
you afraid of huge mansions?
It was not your heart; a
borrowed sample of imitiative
poetry. I will still go for
the rhythm of unspoken words.