Under Cuban Skies
Where would they fly on their parchment wings?
Would they shatter the glass and soar on the winds?
Would they snap the branch of a tree with their weight
When they perch, merrily tired, through the night?
But how could such a cruel man come with a knife
And fix them in this parody of life?
You know, I really must congratulate Monsieur Le Tobacconiste on his excellent choice
Of coronas when I see him. This one in particular has all the evocation of the voice
Of dusky maidens in Havana, rolling the moist leaves upon their silky thighs
In mellifluous conversation, in Spanish, of course, under the Cuban skies.
I wish, in a way, that this never would burn out, so that I would not have the bother
Of getting to my feet and lighting another.
And all around, in the desert of the day
The lone and level sands stretch endlessly away.
Edward is a lecturer and writer, mostly on business and politics. He often posts twittaku (double haiku in 140 characters) on Twitter, plus the occasional political limerick.