Do you understand the poems you receive
are cries of the heart/soul/mind. There are
no bulletins more important to me, from
Morne Calvaire where I live, to you, friends,
accomplices in these attempts to diss the fates.
To those who write back, thank you. To those
who do not, I remain the optimist, but for how
long? You are my prodigal sons and daughters.
I am old enough now to say this. Saint Peter
is counting. God is pacing. We are waiting
for a reply, Write, or the poems will dry
on the vine; the wine will stay in its
bottles, waiting for the cry from the sentinel,
the wild, coursing hoot of joy, the prodigal
child, the promised time has arrived.
Indran Amirthanayagam, January 31, 2016