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Poem	Along the route of this river, with a little luck, we shall chance upon our brothers' fortune, hidden with that cold smile reserved for discreet bankers unmindful of the hydra growing fiery mornings from our discontent Wealth was always fashionable, telluric, not honor pristine and profound. In blasphemous glee, they raise to God's lips those cups filled with ethnic offerings that saps the blood of all human good. Having no other country to call my own except for this one full of pine needles on which we nail our children's lives, I have put off examining this skull, savage harvest, the swollen earth, until that day when, all God's children, we shall plant a eureka supported by a blood knot. And remorse not being theirs to feel, I offer an inventory of abuse by these men, with this wretched earth on my palms, so as to remind them of our stilted growth the length of a cutlass, or if you prefer the size of our burnt-out brotherhood.
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