its bitter dust and taste, corrode,
of history's unwailed cemetaries.
The banished moots, where justice,
exiled, wept, and gnashed broken teeth.
The world is frozen at Runnymede,
let robes and wigs be thrown on flames
the false tongue fans with crooked proclamation.
What barons bring folks' hopes hither
with arms to ring Niccolo's prince
that he might with blood sign back
the broken rights on parchment made of yew?
Hew the laughter and celebration of princes,
the wolves' feast is the lambs' slaughter,
and Gods' tears are venom dripping on eyes
hazed over with lies that they might see,
just see for one moment what mischief
has been wrought with mayhem's dalliance.
O, history passes prosaic,
but leaves its stain poetic ;
and prophets ponder the storming verse
ink-billowed in oil plumes of brine
blooming poison and nightmare
in the far reaches of impossibility
taking root in the unseen but felt banal.
They hardly believe the plot.
We are dreamed by shocked eternity.
We do not sing of Deganawidah
but the white billows' brine-wind whipped
sails of Santa Maria. There is testimony
in the songs unsung ; law shimmers
in the sun above the Western waves
evaporate' the voice of Chungichngish.
A drum still beats pulse
in the heart of the land beneath feet.
Open up the ancient suits, and hear cause:
straight the crook, call witness, let jury
hear plea. Blood runs wergild in the sand,
you have at last a chance to stand.
You are but a shadow on a general's back
carried over cluster-bomb cleats
deep-teeth bite bayonet on the crushed
rights' gravel and rubble. Never
on real ground stood, your soil
is leviathan's flesh etin-tower
terrible over the real land, invisible.
Now take up feet and walk on rights,
if you would have them.
