Her Poetry Was In The Protest

She Was In the Protest

Many rivers have been crossed since
the water of my sister’s tears did
evaporate, make a cloud, make
many clouds, and did blow away.

Meandering thoughts make
many streams, many screams,
a plethora of dreams lost.

There is a cloud over my head.
It rains on me, and
I rain sorrow because
she could not reign over truth
before the reign of bullets began.

The rain of the cloud
waters crops.

The rains of my eyes
are the grieving waters, and
the drops are like bullets.