by Derick Burleson

　　The Kinyarwandan word which means both yesterday and tomorrow

　　World resolves itself　in crowded crane's liquid eye， in the cry　of ibis， eye that's gazed　on anyone who's ever walked　this path beneath acacias，through　coffee fields to the river　and back again carrying water or fish.

　　Cry that cries the morning news.

　　Come， let's walk this path　together， empty handed， carrying　nothing back but a few words　of a language powerful　enough to turn the river　back on itself， to fill the river　with bloated corpses.

　　One day I swam far　into Lake Kivu， a thousand　feet of clear water below　and nothing above except sun.

　　My body suspended on　surface tension， the line　between air and thicker air，　sun the point from which　the water swung.

　　Yesterday　I swam. Now I'm back home.　Tomorrow Remera will swim　out into that same lake， almost　across the border， gut shot，　gasping， almost there， almost. . . .

　　Crowned crane wears　a slash of crimson at the throat.　Beneath its golden crest， beneath　its liquid eye， the path winds　through coffee fields　to the river and back again.

　　Fathom yourself in exile.

　　In every gurgle of each　morning's pot of coffee　you hear your brother's last　breath. You wake in a forest.　You've been shot. Get up，　stagger down the path　to the river full of corpses.

　　In its ancient terrible cry　(fling your body in)　ibis pronounces how　beginning becomes the end.

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（编辑：王美娇）