Mother, seventy
years of freedom
have shackled the
house that you made
with the British furniture
I steadfastly tie them
with a nation’s manacles
Even as the yellow house
grew, the nation shrunk
into cavernous hollows
of windswept children
sunken eyes
stained teeth
cadavers
a nation brought primordial
urge of death
now I swallow all symbols
of oppression, forget them
to be caught in the cross fire
of a nation’s freedom.
Seventy years is a long time
I passed only sixty in this nation
whirling into torrid seas
of seas bludgeoned with
blood, and grime
of people who do not understand
these seventy hears of slow, slow time.
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