My latest poem, “The Chaos We Breathe,” draws inspiration from Franketienne’s seminal novel ‘Dezafi,’ first published in Kreyol in 1975, marking it as the first Haitian Kreyol novel. The poem reflects more of Franketienne’s ideas and worldview than my own, enriched through the use of Artificial Intelligence for refinement. I hope you enjoy reading it. The poem is a lamentation on the desperate human condition depicted in Haiti within the novel’s setting. Let me know what you think.

By the way, my inspiration arises from a close reading of the novel as part of an essay I’m writing on the concept of zombification and its moral and ethical implications for society, particularly in relation to the sacredness of life, human rights and agency, and the pursuit of the common good and human flourishing in the world.

“The Chaos We Breathe”

In our midst, love and death lie tangled in sheets,
bones brittle from (our) wounds unseen.
At the crossroads, we wander lost,
our shadows devoured by ancient dark.
Fate bends the road beneath our feet—
where does it lead?
where lies our hope?
who will brave the fire to bring us back to light?
We gather memories like fragile glass, while dreams unravel in the wind.

We whisper to the wind, but it does not reply.
Our words scatter like leaves in the forest.
No hands reach to lift us nor save us from the chaos.
Who hears the weight of our silence?
Who reads the silence trembling beneath our breath?
Who will bleed with hope to break our binding chains?
Our dreams pile like dust in forgotten corners of the mind.

We touch yet love feels like a distant echo.
Anger burns between us, yet our hands still heal.
Under the ruthless sun, we wilt—
lips cracked, hunger gnawing,
They stole our food before it meets our tongues.
Though the heavens break with grief, the earth denies our pain.
We toil until our spines bend, yet no hands reach for ours.

They stitch our lips closed, silence thick as stone.
Our words choke in our throats, swallowed before our tongue can free them.
A wicked wind rises, devouring our voices and memories.
The earth drinks the blood of our infants, our youth, our elders—never quenched, always craving.
Rivers run red with slaughtered beasts.
We run after dreams that dissolve in air, while hope crumbles into the dust of yesterday.
Still, we learn to forget.
Still, we learn to remember.
Still, we learn to walk as one.
Still, we learn to love.