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William Alexander Bustamante (From Pages)

Now let us forget foreign captains
And Conquistadores myth
That colors the morning exuberantly
With exotics wars and phony fathers
Like a fine lady strolling along a rotten street
I have tasted lemon
And though I wince at my tongue's
Sharp reaction
I value the tart worthiness of vitamins
And the aroma of the blossoms
And the bee like workers singing
While the flowers fall
Like stars littering my eyes.

I cannot see again
Your extroverted flair flashing 
By the country paths
Where the horse yield to your mastery
What else was a boy to do
Tired of the Irish legacy
Tired of plantation life
Tired of the little elementary school
That made Britannia into another Bible
For the masses of the suffering world
What else was there in a small island
To hold twenty one years of restlessness
I can see why the waves
Washed you onto other friendly shores
The Pan Amanian dandy
The tongue upon the Cuban candy
And then there you are
Staring at Wall Street shriveling pain
Licking the candy out of the store again
Your tall mane of hair
Billowing the against the Blue Mountain
The man has returned
Captain of the storm in nineteen thirty eight

And there they were
The Harts, the Hills, Henrys, Coombs
Isaacs ... the whole plethora of our light
Shining at the edge of night
But not you, dietician, 
Hunger was no miracle here
No you, money changer, lender and userer
Good interest is taken from the bank of fear
Not you, tired of the Irish despair
You knew Denham had no purpose here
Your were the voice the workers would hear
You were the hero with chest bared
My father felt the system's rock
And felt wounded and scared
The hand of change was on history's clock

You who dreamed Federation first
And then destroyed it for the gravy pot
Was too small to staunch
The empire's collective curse
You cave from dungeon and cage singing
Winging from Ward
To chief among the murder of crows
And when you flew away from it
From the by-election to the Federal Parliament
And when we were dvided
You rose on it
We are just a lonely island in a crowded sea
The rivers vomit mud
Red with bauxite, and the Prime Minister
Rose like an eagle 
And we love you still today
For it seemed you were not made of common clay
You were the noblest of the Clarkes
Ovations feathered you to fly
Blinding the sun's blinded eye
The greatest of the stars
Inventor of self, en-nobler of dust.

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