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Poem

We are new colonists and we embrace 
A hostile and unforgiving land. Lay 
Claim to clay covered gold by grace 
And the callous palms of tired hands, 
But the weary lesson lidded, did not 
Stay night's strife and eyes' sands. 
We poor Don Quixotes have no Camelot. 
\We left Paradise, the fruit still sweet 
Like a piper's note upon our giddy eyes, 
And edged our sugar hungry teeth 
On gaudy claims the harsh day denies 
Reversing us who came our fortunes to reverse 
On windmills and the roulette of dreams 
We had the upside down of the Midas curse. 
Poor Samsons, we, in the litter of our schemes. 
\I see land beyond forty acres ungiven 
But I see no mules except for us 
Who for fabled EL Dorado has striven 
Conquistadores mired in the plight of dust 
Our feathers are pluckt by the Atlantic storm 
And I, here serches the spectra of Job 
Amidst this new thing without border or norm 
That consumes us like locust on a withering globe.

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