This Sun on This Rubble by Dennis Brutus

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This sun on this rubble after rain.

Bruised though we must be

some easement we require

unarguably, though we argue against desire.

Under jackboots our bones and spirits crunch

forced into sweat-tear-sodden slush

– now glow-lipped by this sudden touch:

– sun-stripped perhaps, our bones may later sing

or spell out some malignant nemesis

Sharpevilled to spearpoints for revenging

but now our pride-dumbed mouths are wide

in wordless supplication

– are grateful for the least relief from pain

– like this sun on this debris after rain.