Poetry About Honduras

Macaws lift red wings above the carved stones of Copan. Morning coffee darkens while mist leaves the western highlands. In Tegucigalpa, buses climb streets folded tightly into hills. The Caribbean keeps one bright edge of the country's weather. Rain drums broad leaves and fills the rivers in an hour. Markets gather mango, maize, voices, and the day's negotiations.

In Tegucigalpa, buses climb streets folded tightly into hills. Blue and white flags move above schools and football fields. Families measure distance in remittances, calls, and promised returns. Beauty does not cancel hardship, and hardship does not own the story. Names of villages travel with those who must leave them. Honduras lives in its people, not in a single headline.

Macaws lift red wings above the carved stones of Copan. Rain drums broad leaves and fills the rivers in an hour. Markets gather mango, maize, voices, and the day's negotiations. Beauty does not cancel hardship, and hardship does not own the story. At sunset, mountains hold the last light above the roofs. Honduras lives in its people, not in a single headline.