the promised land?

    And so I chance upon a nation
    of swarthy souled fundamentalists
    opportunists
    graffitists

    They stake their claims in the wilderness
    unmarked and unforgiven
    young and crude
    faithless

    These barren wastes left behind a slaughter's memory are not
    Well, the blood is long washed away, it cannot be
    accusing, can it be
    accursed?

    The earth knows not how to refuse its tillage;
    The rivers cannot but choose to flow downhill
    in complicit
    innocence

    And out of sight of then and now, of blood and terror
    Served blindly by what it calls God
    This nation
    demands all

    11/25/99

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© Huw Powell
www.humanthoughts.org