East On The Wind

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Beyond swaying palms of freedom’s psalms,

Lies a restless ocean of myth devotion,

There on the Maghreb shore divinity more,

Whipped Sahel sands of Mohammedan hands.

 

Sea red, then dead, then none at all,

Between the rivers mountains tall,

Pantheistic plain all are small.

 

And on northeasterly, high plateau Ohm,

Far, far behind Hebrew shalom,

You’ll find the saffron in the snow,

Born of sufferance, a life of know,

Onward yellow stream, confusion reigning,

Twixt Marxist dogma and Confucius saying.

 

Destination microchip men,

Spring cherry blossom,

Land of the rising Zen.

 

Southward Cook he did espy,

Outback orange, Maori black, blue Pacific eye,

Which brings us back to new world gold,

Where Cortez the Killer watched the Aztec fold.

 

The shores on which we did not land,

Are those which had the greatest hand,

Of shaping Earth to their own end,

Still gaping wounds they cannot tend.                                      (©SMS2008)

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