cascading shards uneasy echoes
Rape of Earth, hot spurts of words savage knives abiding Mothers, sacred and mundane twist into harridan cold stars
wailing, hurtling waves Sad, old, crust of ages sliced and screwed, carved up for profit “It’s not the color of the skin, the culture of the smile” the scent of danger, the inborn stranger — all excuses for Us (superior) and Them (inferior) “They are not like we; but lower curs.” we may harm with unfettered glee Cursed to be ours, cut to our requirement. Keep them from our (property)(security) Leave them to our putrid pits cunning jabs, our pleasure.
Thus all treasure that might regale, heal, reveal true worth, of man and Earth sold for pittance of potash to dance a weary jig