"moorish" poems
White folks: pack your bags and go.
Our nut-brown world is quite offended.
Make your shame-faced exit NOW,
And leave your mansions unattended.
Wait—before you pass the doors,
It's time to settle ethnic scores.
No more ragtime Minstrel Show.
Our Moorish Science took it down.
Black lives matter. White, less so—
Now move your pale face out of town . . .
But first, shell out for racial shame
Caucasian losers of the game.
Cultural pride is ours alone:
Kings and Egyptian queens we were.
The glories of our race, well-known
Bedazzle in a darkened blur
(Clear to Africa's descendants—
Puzzling to you white dependents).
Blackness lent your world its light,
Taught the Dutch to tend those flowers.
Scandinavia grew bright
Under our beneficent powers.
Negroes gave your blondes their beauty;
Helped those Norsemen shake their *****
The Seven Wonders of the world:
We built them all. No vain conjecture
Dims our banner, black, unfurled,
Above eternal architecture.
Arts and knowledge gained from us
Are what we threaten to discuss.
We invented math and science
Which you robbed from Timbuktu.
Swarthy wisdom's brave defiance
Caused Old Europe to renew.
All our treasure that you plundered
Testifies: your days are numbered.
Classics of our Greeks you stole:
Philosophy was never yours.
Shame upon your racist soul;
For Bach and Mozart both were Moors.
Misappropriated treasures
call for ruthless hard-line measures.
Latino fate falls next—but, where ?
Jews, Turks, and Arabs: are you. . . white ?
Orientals everywhere:
Choose your side and join the fight.
Blackness rising! Late the hour;
Heed your call to fight the power.
Crackers need to check your race—
Stop rooting for that ****** clown.
Rednecks all up in our face;
Racist throwbacks got us down.
But as your statues bite the dust
Your light goes dark (you know it must).
So move on out, oppressor, thief.
Long have you held our nation back.
In some white galaxy seek relief—
But here the light itself is black.
Stars are racist. So is the sun.
Now let God's great black will be done.
Sep 23, 2017
Sep 23, 2017 at 12:03 PM UTC
**** the Police
Coming straight out the underground
Young brother got it bad
Cuz I look Mexican and I'm brown
Can't forget to do diarrhea
on the sheriff deputies
Cuz you wear a uniform and a badge
think you deserve respect like a G
Biggest violaters of civil rights
in the ******* land
take advantage of everybody
cuz you think we're stupid and you can
Where are you going? What's your name? Are you on Probation?
California is not a stop and identify state
How about I cuff your ***
Take you to an alley and let out all my frustration
Am I under arrest?
Or am I free to go is what I ask
Boo bop & slit your throat
come up from behind with a ******* Chucky mask
I'm the worst ******* nightmare
there ever has been
A conscious, Chicano, 5 percenter
Moorish American free national citizen
How about next time you **** one of us
We hunt you down, home invade your family
and launch you all of a cliff in a bus.
Quick to leave a pig bleeding left for dead in a ***** ditch
***** sewed to your mouth, you wanna be me punk *** *****
Or we'll cut your head off
and stick it to a thousand foot pole
start the vampire nation, count Vlad's idea yea I stole.
14th amendment, 85 percenter
corporate security guard
driving a big *** truck with your undersized *****
and you think your all hard, you ******* ******
You're obvious and pathetic
I got no time to play
We don't die we multiply and the movement is here to stay.
Get off me stupid I ain't signing no autographs
Che Guevara reincarnated now who has the last laugh?
Sep 14, 2018
Sep 14, 2018 at 6:48 PM UTC
[Las Meninas, Oil on Canvas, 1656, Prado, Madrid]
I am the first proud pronoun I
against the fear of my invisibility
each morning rising from
minor nobility like my parents
(no son of a converso – lies –)
into the light of mastery;
now as a Knight of Santiago
- the king himself painted the cross
you see in Las Meninas -
nobilitas is in the faces
royal with ancient lines
(you understand I did not
trade
am Moorish of Seville
and Portugal).
Not from the mind but back
into its expectation.
I see the work reflected
into the lens of sense
to supplement the work into the real
express itself by what
a slavish love of detail cannot supply
it was the power
to give them what they did not see
the scorn in lips
from ****** generations
bought by my brush
among them into monarchic trade
and what they thought as glory,
dwarves and all larger than life.
that painted me so high
those royal portraits by the score
keyed to the colour of fame
silvered and golden
mine.
Jan 25, 2012
Jan 25, 2012 at 7:11 AM UTC
The ceiling of the grand ballroom
Opens as if it were taking in a deep breath.
All of the golden oil painted negative space
And striped Moorish arches allow the chandelier to shine
Blood red.
The pirates hung from the ceiling,
Each with his wrists bound to his ankles,
Festooned in the shape of a teardrop
Or a bell or a drop of blood.
The Jolly Roger slowly turns
Without even a slight breeze or breath,
Dangling from a single chord of rope.
How jolly Roger used to be before the navy came,
Smiling at the sinking enemy ships set on fire by black powder.
Perhaps he still smiles, even through the darkness,
Even through the gaping, gasping
Cannonball holes you can almost hear moan
On the side of his ship far below the surface of the sea,
And hangs high and proud on his ship’s tallest mast.
Perhaps the pirates hang high too, robust and glorious
Like their billowing flag, shameless and naked
With nothing to hide and everything to be proud of, a trophy
Not for a queen and her navy
But for themselves and the successes of their wanderlust.
Jan 6, 2012
Jan 6, 2012 at 12:37 AM UTC
Alorè, she-winged orb,
Aidenn's story,
As of ev'ry of all stars absorb
Moorish wars and glory.
Dulcet wings she tether,---
Mighty kinsmen grayed
By unlocking clean of her
Beauty's Bridesmaid.
In each pearling Note
As syrup entwining
Silently thro' her sacred throat---
Who here pins a-singing?
Voyeurs there take pleasure
Leering forward
*At the Seraph's ******** treasure,*
All mastered by one measure
Of Alorè's harsh sharp-sword.
Alorè's wings do they a-part
Off of the Empyrean
Out the dead the sun of Lords depart
The Dawn of Aurorean.
Ancient welfare
Upon Achaean's Night,
Where all the sea-seraphs a-delight,
No mortal can't escape the light
*Of the She-Winged ******** affair.*
Apr 21, 2011
Apr 21, 2011 at 5:38 PM UTC
losing thoughts to the margins in
some great depression of creative
outlet. taking inked works from a
revered Shakespeare born of the
Moorish states, filling out cata-
combs of this one's entombed
thoughts. and pondering Paris
of some earlier century, how
those writers flocked together.
how this one loathes his current
centuries other writers.
and these, are we, birds of a feather?
flocking, so to be better caught
by twelve-gauge scatter shot?
perhaps we are of a generation
lost, with blinders grown thru years.
expats stranded in a sea of comp-
lacancy in isolation with warring
souls raising higher parapets for
safety? this one's soul may have
raised too high fortifications,
forcing attrition upon the inhab-
itants. this one's soul may have
slaughtered the others for fear
of a low-cat staring up to
the eyes of its King. and
lone heart-beat echoing off
solid stone walls built of mortar
mixed with sweat and tears from
desecrated - of the desolated - and
now forsaken culture only a
quarter-century out. this one's
dogma consisting of self-martying
psychopomps pre-proclaiming ..
'I went out myself into
an immortal body, and
now I am not what I was
before. Now born in mind.'
this one's canonized martyrs only
seeking migration and division.
seeking the Kepigori for hopes of
retrieving knowledge lost - placed
without qualm of forgetting - the
ancestors bore unto still setting
mounds of clay mixed blood. and
when finally set, when finally full-
formed, when finally upright and
springing forth the common know-
ledge which was taught once in
truth. and, now breaking in thought
while this one's hours rot, while this
one leaves an abrupt end.
Aug 21, 2013
Aug 21, 2013 at 7:41 AM UTC
12 BARS
Twelve brazen bars, one frozen lock!
Confined, sublime, an ancient Roc
endures inside a barren cage,
her catacomb in sundown sage.
Of former days there is no trace
except displays of fallen grace –
Twelve dreams, abiding in her place,
are free, inhabit yawning space:
12 DREAMS
... of wings unfurled, and seething eyes
that dredge the depths of dawning skies,
devining clouds that cling below,
once ice, dissolved in morning’s glow;
... of clutching winds that carry free
above an anguished leaden sea,
dispersing dust of distant stars
midst chunks of chain in slave bazaars;
... of swooping to a silent shore
to perch beside the ocean’s roar,
at last to feel the sobbing breeze
message the leaves of rooted trees;
... of stalking strays and twilight tramps
within the fog of lighthouse lamps
that blink forlorn through caldron nights
in search of shades of errant Kites;
... of darkling vast deserted lands,
with shadowed stones on windswept sands,
where ghosts of Moorish maidens lost
disgorge faint groans in mourning frost;
... of blotting out the bloated moon
while feathers beat a banshee tune
and glimmers dance and prance aglow
upon a pearly pale plateau;
... of tasting cool torrential rains,
beyond the realm of binding chains,
and sipping freedom they exude
in quite drops of solitude;
... of vanquishing a galley crew
aboard a ship in midnight dew,
beneath the pierce of seagulls' screams
that mock the strands of scarlet streams;
... of sating once an aching craw
with tearing beak, with ripping claw,
and echoed by an eldritch screech
while feasting on abandoned beach;
... of restive thoughts and weary wings
that drift on haze in smoky rings,
obscured within the opal shroud
of her resemblance in the crowd;
... of croaking caws in broken rhyme
in winter woe, in summer clime,
while building nests of sundown sage
beyond outside a barren cage.
May 10, 2013
May 10, 2013 at 8:28 AM UTC
Sand-written Christians claiming to remember
the computer's food, in jeopardy & daughters
dancing enough in the Temple; & heard
over the radio on the table; naturally hidden
off a gypsy feeling the heat from burning
torches, ways corner holding the prostitute's
picture of her mom; Jack's lover in sheath town could
bring to move more corporate leather desert
skinny lady's dawn planet body like a hairy mantle;
a shade; In the kissed him, and as much as
they call it, Latin east of the garden to look
at the lights of the flame of the knowledge
of the plastic Einstein's abstract sense,
the invisible is greater than the sight
of the beat the bottom of the New;
moving sweat, receives fate come to be known
is a living being hot the skin, which is the fall
of the leaves according to the letter; to play a stranger
the true lord,
is taken to read the goddess, in the middle of the book
of b/c leading to a hot start for you to speak to the queen
of the stomach, a teenager's clothes & the waves of the wide part
of the shore of ***** almost to stand still the middle of the night,
a witch holds the lady naked; 1 shall return against the writer
that he is already a-dying, blessed are they,
w/ their armed sect Moorish & thin, of course,
to leave behind the knees bathing
in the hot springs in the Hills?
[The cut is greater than the tongue of madness
of the sounds of a loud ****
30 shall be the wicked desires of Asian investors;
Said the Christian, remember what the computer does;
I put food on the table, natural daughter dancing
enough to house music on the radio hidden off in the corner;
holding a gypsy & feeling burning torches; the ways of prostitutes
have the same mom as Jack; lover's sheath in a state
where she is able to move more corporately, in its skin,
as the body of a planet; the light of the wilderness
of the ladies' skinny body like a hairy garment:
& they in the shadow; Kissing him, & beyond their means
call Latin east of the garden & look at the lights;
in the flame from the knowledge of the plastic Einstein,
in the abstract, the invisible things is greater than
the number of people viewing the bottom
of the trendy new thing that moves the sweaty way to accept a fate
to be known, that being to be alive
or to be hot on the skin, which is in the leaves of the
trees which were according to the letter to play the
stranger in the future he is true, LORD taken in the Law
of the goddess, for you to speak to the queen
of the middle of the little book out of a hot start
to the ventricle of a teenager the garments b/c the
waves to the shore of the broad middle of the night,
told by a witch who can barely stand the mistress
of the city, he was naked; Then returned
to the 1-in's, which is already dying,
happy w/ the sect in the arms of a Moorish one indeed,
to leave on its knees in the Hills?
the cut is greater than insanity,
a loud banging noise of languages;
the wicked desires of Asian investors
Sep 13, 2018
Sep 13, 2018 at 1:17 AM UTC
And the cor anglais
Plays
The snake charmers
Medley
In the oriental artifice
Created for you
And the jasmine soaked
Velvet
Of the cushions and curtains
Masks
The devotion
Engendered by you
And the blue tiled
Fountain
And Moorish arched garden
Cool waiting
For moments
Gifted by you
Jul 28, 2011
Jul 28, 2011 at 3:38 AM UTC
To the town of Atienza, Molina's brave Alcayde,
The courteous and the valorous, led forth his bold brigade.
The Moor came back in triumph, he came without a wound,
With many a Christian standard, and Christian captive bound.
He passed the city portals, with swelling heart and vein,
And towards his lady's dwelling he rode with slackened rein;
Two circuits on his charger he took, and at the third,
From the door of her balcony Zelinda's voice was heard.
"Now if thou wert not shameless," said the lady to the Moor,
"Thou wouldst neither pass my dwelling, nor stop before my door.
Alas for poor Zelinda, and for her wayward mood,
That one in love with peace should have loved a man of blood!
Since not that thou wert noble I chose thee for my knight,
But that thy sword was dreaded in tournay and in fight.
Ah, thoughtless and unhappy! that I should fail to see
How ill the stubborn flint and the yielding wax agree.
Boast not thy love for me, while the shrieking of the fife
Can change thy mood of mildness to fury and to strife.
Say not my voice is magic--thy pleasure is to hear
The bursting of the carbine, and shivering of the spear.
Well, follow thou thy choice--to the battle-field away,
To thy triumphs and thy trophies, since I am less than they.
****** thy arm into thy buckler, gird on thy crooked brand,
And call upon thy trusty squire to bring thy spears in hand.
Lead forth thy band to skirmish, by mountain and by mead,
On thy dappled Moorish barb, or thy fleeter border steed.
Go, waste the Christian hamlets, and sweep away their flocks,
From Almazan's broad meadows to Siguenza's rocks.
Leave Zelinda altogether, whom thou leavest oft and long,
And in the life thou lovest forget whom thou dost wrong.
These eyes shall not recall thee, though they meet no more thine own,
Though they weep that thou art absent, and that I am all alone."
She ceased, and turning from him her flushed and angry cheek,
Shut the door of her balcony before the Moor could speak.
1.2k
The heart-warming sound of an acoustic guitar provides sincere resolution amidst the anguish of uncertainty, in the same manner as the classical Spanish guitar projects her intensities in Sierra Nevada assertions.
Consider the beauty of the finca, as she is a throbbing source of sustenance where romantic pastels merge into an array of Moorish delight.
Let us never forget that such instruments of eternal communication cannot find affiliation in the arenas of Roman legacy.
I give thanks to the order of being for the tuning of the symmetrical aphrodisiac.
Nov 25, 2013
Nov 25, 2013 at 11:09 PM UTC
what
Don Quixote of
Quixote of La Mancha
witness
the
sound of
wooden castanet dance
Moorish guitar strings
from
windmills
upon
Spanish the hills
Oct 24, 2015
Oct 24, 2015 at 3:06 PM UTC
It was dark in the mountains of Sollum
Near Benghazi close by the sea
And the shadows of early September
They cling to the dark Euka tree
The night fell softly around us
The dunes brought a cool restful peace
The skies list their Orange-bursting thunder
As the shell-fire would finally cease
Our dead,(yes alas there were many)
Burning on with a smell oh so foul
Was mixed with the odor of dying
And the final expelling of bowel
We waited,(we numbered just five now)
Of the hundred that came to this place
While a victory we never doubted
It's now bitter finish we face
Our names and this battle forgotten
Again 'neath the soft desert moon
A lover and there his beloved
They rest by the old Moorish ruin
The desert will cover our presence
In less than a lifetime or so
O'er our graves the Bedouin wanders
And the laboring caravans go
Jul 3, 2013
Jul 3, 2013 at 6:01 PM UTC
Patricians have our best interests in mind.
Administration is impartial, kind.
Keeps us laughin’, keeps us singin’—
And I’m Hildegard of Bingen.
She gets it like she gets the working class;
My head is nodding, up my Marxist ***
White woke wedding bells are ringin’
Happy Hildegard of Bingen.
Government will gladly redistribute.
As our paychecks sing eternal tribute.
Gangsta-leanin, frontin’, blingin:
Chill with Hildegard of Bingen.
Icecaps, like medieval saints, are HOT.
Climate is in crisis when it’s not . . .
Global warning: winter’s springin’
Heating Hildegard of Bingen.
Intersectionality has meaning.
Hormones lie, biology’s demeaning .
Genderfluid queens are kingin’
Checkmate, Hildegard of Bingen.
Transnationals are cleaning up the mess;
Their CEO’s have little to confess.
Silver in the till, ka-chingin’
Profits Hildegard of Bingen.
Hildegard, the Moorish maiden, lauded.
Wokeness smiled. Diversity applauded.
Flames ascend and seraphim are wingin’
To the throne of Hildegard of Bingen.
Apr 16, 2020
Apr 16, 2020 at 10:08 AM UTC
How thy litheness dimmed by the light
but with gleams of c'rious insight
And shalt then thou start to sparkle
Grab victory, win the battle
Thou art just a little devil
Whose story gives people a shrill
But still thou never lose thy thrill;
abound with tricks, traps and bad will
How thou dwelt there within my heart!
Delights it and tears it apart!
Thou art the sky to my blunt night
Thou hold my fear and squeeze my fright
A little devil, just as thou art
Unloved by many holy hearts
But to me thou art not a fiend
At times thou art my only friend!
Thou liveth both my body and soul
Mocks the good deeds but praises the foul
When I am hurt thou start to grow
Give my en'mies a gravely show
How t'ose tears wrapped along thy eyes!
Blame the sick moon and moorish skies!
They've no love despite their promise
Our suffering's just what they shalt wish.
But I dear you, my little mate
Thou art my laugh and childlike path
Although unpraised just as we are
from each other we shan't be far.
Jan 4, 2013
Jan 4, 2013 at 8:13 AM UTC
I see you not, but completely
Your eyes twinkle
You and my thoughts smother me in goose pimples
Pores, blemishes, weathered wrinkles
Delicious Pigment, salt and pepper sprinkles
Your imperfections are my weak spot
Aesthetic flaws a turn on
Dark lashes
Dreamy brown eyes
How your eyelids crinkle when you squint in the light
An impulse to run my hands through your ebony hair
behind your ear, let me linger here
And down to the sides
Of your neck
Your skin reacts with my breath
To touch with mine, that bottom lip
That thought's enough to make my tummy flip
The desire to explore your face
Is impossible to articulate
I don’t possess the vocabulary
To do you justice poetically
But can we get back to your neck
For just a sec
You know, that part just below your ear
Has me longing to place my mouth there
And I’ve not yet mentioned your hands
How I yearn for them to explore my lands
Entwine them in mine, till the thickness of your fingers and the Slenderness of mine, in time, demand change
I’ll open my palms inviting your embrace
Aroused by the pressure and the weight and pace
Your fingers trace my face
And brush my lips, I turn my head, closing my eyes
Savouring the skin on skin collide
In encouragement and moorish praise
Wondering if our thoughts are the same
Speaking words I would never have usually found
Or said out loud
But how can I rephrase
I'm high on dopamine pathways
My mind a maze, my body ablaze
You are a drug
I can't overdose enough
My brain rewards with desire and lust
An addictive thrill, a heightened rush
Daydreams end and drugs wear off
Realities crush
Until the next time I get high on you and us
Nov 13, 2017
Nov 13, 2017 at 10:42 AM UTC
I may be good or bad,
A calm sea,
A tumultuous storm,
Jovial or moorish,
Sometimes I may hurt your feelings,
But, one thing I promise you love,
I will never leave you alone.
11/7/2019
Jul 12, 2019
Jul 12, 2019 at 5:41 AM UTC
Moorish bell tower
orange brick or yellow
in a different light
I welcomed on seeing
it in sight,
extra ecclesiam
nulla salus
said Augustine
or so read,
red light
at altar end
and a monk
black robed
walked from cloister
to bell tower
stopping in the aisle
genuflecting
then walked off
to the right
in the half light,
dimidium lux
evening moon shone
through high windows
as bell tolled deep and heavy,
altum et grave
tolled bell out of sight
breaking the still silence
of the abbey where I sat
sensing the chill of evening,
Για όταν είμαι αδύναμος
τότε είναι που είμαι δυνατός
said Paul so read
in the epistle
he is strong when weak,
her two fruits pressed
against my naked chest
there may I rest said I
with a deep sigh,
soupir profond
taking in the chilled breath
in the air silence
of the abbey church,
Hugh said one
had walked
past his cell
making noise
in dawn's light
meaning me
but I ignored
etre comme le Christ
or so tried,
juger les personnes
et les choses dans
la lumière la plus
favorable à tout moment
said Dom James
quoting Vincent de Paul
in the novice's room
after terce,
she opened up
like a bird her wings
there her nest lay
and I engaged her
as she spoke
no laughter
no joke,
I weeded the graves
of the monks at rest
and moles had tunnelled
along side by the stones,
talpe di nuovo
the Italian monk said
pointing at the mounds
come piccole colline,
I knelt in the choir stalls
eyes closed
trying to capture
God's voice
but just silence,
sicut silentium
a pin could drop
and I'd hear
the deadly hush
I fear.
Dec 27, 2016
Dec 27, 2016 at 10:26 AM UTC
Be Not Afraid
Power
All That Is Taken
Will Bee ReStored
Gladsomw Well
Moore is the World
Of Moorish Goings
Vandals Taken
Thru Gaytes
Once Impeccable
Occult is the Focus
Space ReExistant
Rainbow
Ein Stahl
Ist Er Lieben
Grogen Eisner kinder
Du Bist HA
A Wit Fure
A wit Fure
Oct 1, 2016
Oct 1, 2016 at 9:58 PM UTC
I found you
After the lights were turned off
After the campaign for Moorish dignity
Failed miserably
Spin Fortuna's wheel
And hope it lands in a beneficial spot
Your voice still speaks
As loudly as if you were next to me right now
After you died in a car
Breathing in the fumes of life completely undiluted
I listen to Jimmie Spheeris
As I recognize we are living in a confederacy of dunces
And no neon bible exist
Without you
Mar 4, 2016
Mar 4, 2016 at 1:25 PM UTC
She's queen of the desert,
peasant of the land
At night when the wolf howls,
she'd be Mother of Nile
At times when the heat kills
She fought for the light
A warrior in darkness, the
hope of the man
Her strength is as fiery
As the madman's eyes
that the Concord dictates
she's the beast immortal
Nobody thought to challenge
her reign, nor tried
to understand how
her plans were made
But everyone envies
to the core of their hearts
Some even sided
with devils' betrayal
Everyone wonders how
she got her Crown
Who made it possible
her defeating these odds
Nobody knew she's but
a slave in the wars
the one that smells,
with the bruises and the scars
No one knew her pirate
woes. The solitude
and the silent crows
But those moorish
Nights that saw it all
They took the pain, the screams
The fall
The academe & politicos
knew her too
Asked why'd she disappear
too far, too soon?
What's curious is that
she didn't know at
all, the lives she lived
had made her whole
It was probably fate or God
or faith, but she lives
the lives of her
seven tales
Oct 23, 2018
Oct 23, 2018 at 6:53 AM UTC
Oureana, young and beautiful
Rests in her den of lavish comfort,
Looks from her Moorish palace balcony,
Sipping honey from a wooden bowl.
Draped in red damask and easter green,
She watches the soldier ride below.
"Princess, do not look at him!"
Softly comes the desperate hum
Of a servant overlooked and ignored.
"Even now I wish you peace,
To hear the crack of battle nevermore."
Jun 18, 2018
Jun 18, 2018 at 1:14 AM UTC
SANDOVAL
Your brigs of bustling pilgrims light at last
On this sweet-scented isle called Cozumel.
Depopulating half of Cuba’s farms,
The skills of our six hundred souls, or so,
Erupt now in a pitched activity.
We’ve confiscated idols, and our cross
Now overlooks the rising ropes and tarps;
Our cannons hedge the campground, with our horse,
As secret weapons, hidden in the ships.
ALVARADO
Now what a breezing cakewalk will it be
To pacify this docile flock of lambs!
Let’s ****** the sweetmeats from their trembling lips,
And wean them to the yoke of servitude.
Vassals alone make masters out of men.
CORTÉS
Not yet so fast. For Cuba’s stewardship
Forbids such a carnivorous regime.
Father Olmedo warns us not to tease,
Much less ****** the native nymphs.
ALVARADO Cortés,
We trust that you, like all stargazing men,
Crave glory, fortune, and above all, fame;
That royal favor and divine accord
Will light on those who quell idolatry,
And carve new lands for God and His Castile.
CORTÉS
But like a gentlemanly pirate, I.
For Cuba’s governor deceives himself.
His pure concern for human chattel, gold,
And bandying the Indies as it were
A distant annex of the Moorish war
Has wrought a desert from a paradise.
Long-term success requires a colony.
And with what wherewithal! These islanders
Stand head and shoulders o’er Carribbeans,
With their rich-painted books and towering keeps,
The graceful girding of their modesties-
SANDOVAL
Their slave trades, and their binding bright bouquets-
ALVARADO
Distilling liquor: Culture’s surest sign.
CORTÉS
Our prime directive is to baptize them,
Not march before their eyes the Seven Sins.
But how to learn their Tower-of-Babel tongues?
Oct 16, 2016
Oct 16, 2016 at 12:36 PM UTC