O cursed of vegetation…

Innocently you nurture your children

under the shade of your roof.

Your arms weave in and out of

country fences forming a quilt of

parenthood for the suckling suns

of blessed seed.

The morning star cast his eyes

at the beloved - earth,

and gave you the

firstborn in his likeness.

Praise God you are not a tree,

pregnant, birthed, and ripened,

waiting for Lord Gravity to summon you.

Curse the heathen man

who cloak in robes

and mask their faces

exterminating your nation in a fortnight,

carving your body into their own

wicked faces of death.

They leave your carcass,

not in their home,

but as a sitting effigy

with death

scrawled across your face

in a crooked smile.