Prison

That gaol is comfort.
Release from it means sweet home.
 
This gaol is torture.
It has fetters for the innocent.
 
Heritage has gone astray
because
the past has burnt.
Blossoms have bloomed
even in the dry sand.
 
In the dark cells
they still try to know-
On the door of hell
they yearn for their yesterday.
 
Patience breaks stones
and
tired eyes recall
the marigold
and the green leaf.
 
There is a crematorium
by the prison gate.
The prisoners smile.