I am walking the splintered streets of Port-au-Prince,
the scattered bodies of the poor around me,
waiting to rise like a vengeful spirit
And before the mournful wind has untangled the hair of the dead child,
they carried him off to a narrow, pestilent and dirty burial ground,
from where insidious diseases are transmitted to the bodies of the poor,
A mother is tending to a springing flower
where they have hurriedly buried her beloved child.
When the darkness surrounded their desolate homes,
the Poor, under the same cold moon
and in the same harsh wind walk off to a road of no return,
because you can't reach a place like that too soon,
nor can you stay too long!
The prayer of the Poor doesn't reach high,
it is as if even prayers come at a price here.
Come, you scattered lights, to the windows of these shabby
and sad houses, unfurled the echo of the prayers
like bats in the fog.
But before the quake tore down the windows
of these shabby and sad
houses, poverty took their lives a long time ago
to a road of no return. To tell the truth,
they cannot leave too soon, because even death
was bored out of its wits here. After all,
how can those possibly die, who died
a long time ago.
Where is that heart of humanity now,
while the mortal remains lay outside their yards?
Because tears should have been shed long before the quake,
when darkness had wrapped these shabby and sad houses of the poor with poverty.