Some visions last like your first kill.
Some voices carry
like monkeys' in the forest.
Feel yourself blind with broken knees
crushing through a forest of mosquito-bleeding rain.
Cooked in metal shells land
and gold, taken naturally
from cacique to king
slaughtering men for acting like women
mad enough to taste the fungi
growing from the blood.
When a man sees gore
run down a mountain peak
when a raider finds a new goldmine
waiting to be pacified
he feels my sunless weeks imprisoned
in a jungle killed for king and god:
My ocean. My sunset. My pearls.
Even in the conquered I find a home.
Atrocities accepted as the will of god
enough alliances to show my estate
followed by false charges and three hard axe-blows .
The quest was tough disappointing neverending and misguided.
But my vision of the ocean
is yours forever.
Some visions last.
Some voices carry
like a monkey's in the morning
you want to go away.
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