Your littered corrientes,
your filthy politicians,
your bitter bullets tore nothing
but clouds in the sky.
Your littered tierras,
your sugarcane and sweat,
your lowest bidder always buys.
The Mother of God weeps
as she gives her guns to greed.
The peasants grimace
and sow their trash and seed.
Where the littered ríos run
and the ashy montañas burn,
bullets and hope hang from stars in the sky.
On clear nights children reach out,
try to pull them down, while
Esperanza smiles like a far of Sandino silhouette.
even hope seems littered.
(This poem was written after a 9 day trip to Nicaragua.)