I looked round for vendors of my own past,
For that Hall where, many seasons ago,
My Continent was sliced up like a juicy mango
To quell the quarrel of alien siblings
I looked for the knife which exacted the rift
How many kingdoms held its handle
The bravado of its blade
The wisdom of potentates who put
The map before the man
The cruel arrogance of empire,
Of kings/queens who laid claim to rivers, to mountains,
To other peoples and other gods and other histories
And they who went to bed under one conqueror’s flag,
Waking up the next beneath the shadows of another
Their ears twisted to the syllable of alien tongues
Gunboats
Territories of terror…
Oh that map, that knife, those contending emperors
These bleeding scars in a Continent’s soul,
Insisting on a millennium of healing.
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