A true poem is a thing of awe.
A true poem is a struggle unto death.
A true poem is another land
where one sojourns
when one is past death’s door.
A true poem is made of words that linger on
when all the others in one’s life are washed away:
one single kernel
but from which can sprout
life all anew.
Stream then all over me
Arusubanya* of the world.
Perhaps one day, one day,
my mouth will burst asunder
to utter but two words for simple souls
which, as they grow, will sprout ripe stars
which even now I am searching for.
*A rapid in the Suriname river: ‘It loosens the ribs.’
About this poem
This poem, representing Suriname, is part of The Written World – our collaboration with BBC radio to broadcast a poem from every single nation competing in London 2012.