I too love jeans and jazz and Treasure island
and John silver’s parrot and the balconies of New Orleans,
I love Mark Twain and the Mississipi steamboats
and Abrahan lincoln’s dogs.
I love the fields of wheat and corn and the smell of Virginia tobacco.
But I am not American.
Is that enough for the Phantom pilot to turn me
back to the stone age?
…
America:
Let’s exchange gifts. Take your smuggled cigarettes
and give us potatoes.
Take James Bond’s golden pistol
and give us Marilyn Monroe’s giggle.
Take the heroin syringe under the tree
and give us vaccines.
Take your blueprints for model penitentiaries
and give us village homes.
Take the books of your missionaries
and give us paper for poems to defame you.
Take what you do not have
and give us what we have.
Take the stripes of your flag
and give us the stars.
Take the Afghani Mujahideen beard
and give us Walt Whitman’s beard filled with
butterflies.
Take Saddam Hussein
and give us Abraham Lincoln
or give us no-one.
…
We are not hostages, America
and your soldiers are not God’s soldiers …
We are the poor ones, ours is the earth of the
drowned gods.
the gods of bulls
the gods of fires
the gods of sorrows that intertwine clay and
blood in a song…
We are the poor, ours is the god of the poor
who emerges out of farmers’ ribs
hungry and bright,
and raises heads up high…
America, we are the dead.
Let your soldiers come.
Whoever kills a man, let him ressurect him.
We are the drowned ones, dear lady.
We are the drowned.
let the water come.
