I had dreamed of gentle hills who cloaked themselves
in emerald green, swathed in capes of moss
and bejeweled by Time with tumbled stone.
Sitting in a high window looking east,
Over damascene forests crowding,
I saw the waves hurl themselves on rocky shores
where hopeful pilgrims and adventurers
once landed, timorous at first
their linear minds and loud weapons braced
for battle with those who watched
from under shade of guarded forest.
I knew their history now, how they grew bold
and mowed down the ancients, wrecking paradise
until, for a time, it resembled the land they'd fled.
Decades rolled past with the confidence of the victor,
his rewriting of progress and the careless tramping
of feet, horses and railroads over human souls.
At last, what was forged by the invaders
became brief peace and prosperity for a time,
but descended into dictators and their subjects,
and people were mesmerized by moving pictures,
their brains turned to porridge with radio waves.
lulled by sweet, starry-eyed promises from the rich.
The chance of revolution has weakened
to the point of desperation.
La resistance lies in shadow, like a lion crouching
waiting for people to awaken, for the **** that frees.