Littered with memories of vile imbecility;
and of bravery.
Of interrupted lineages and the restless bones
of seized men who never saw their wives again.
It amazes me how that ocean can be at peace,
be still.
Where are the gods to take revenge?
The spirits of angry children whose bodies
have never degraded
should be possessing the waves,
making them ill at ease.
Atlantic’s water should taste more of bile than salt,
and her floors should be disintegrating—
from all the stolen dreams struggling to course
through to the surface,
to life,
to live again…
…as me and you, who yet have forgotten where we
came from,
and so club ourselves to death,
making our lands spongy
from the saturation of abundant young blood.
Tell me, my kin,
you really want to blame “the enemy”
again this time?
Oh now! Don’t be stupid.
