The Explorers
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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