They do not fear the heavy rains yet they grasp at the idea of survival with withered hands, reaching for the pleasures of earlier times.
When the men have come back from the hunt, they receive the praise from their wives: “Like a military weapon!”
The children know whom’s head was struck with an apple and they fear the hands of God (like good little children should).
They will run to the isle of modernization each morning: the sun saturating their skulls by high-noon.
Beneath their fingernails they water the seeds of unrest and pray the garden will wilt.
“Like a military weapon!” The young girls follow, chanting behind their mothers.
Desdemona rose from her daffodils.
She felt the gallop of rising pressure welling up from within her fruitless chest.
Their side of the east had not been won.
They saw the lands that surround engulfed by the pioneers of religion and wealth.
They will never reach us!
They can never reach us!
We are God!
Begrudgingly, she rioted against her being
And dove back into the daffodils.
A rusted stranger! With flocks of gold around his crown
Rolled into the town with diamonds in his sleeves.
His language was unknown and cross to the ears;
More intimidating than his physique.
“Like a military weapon!” The girls cry from the foyer of the town.
Peering from her precious perennials,
Winds gathered around her handsome face.
Break the barriers,
The gentleman of the compound ushered him to Congress,
Two tables and two chairs. Brushing their bristles they advanced at the rustic,
“Let us give you our culture!”
We are God!
Again she rose, rubbing her eye with two hands.
She will wander down the street, the worry brewing in her chest.
Sampling the riches of community,
The gentlemen bellow meaningless grunts, in an attempt to communicate.
The rustic smiles a gentle devious grin, reflecting on a finer paradise.
He summoned a parcel from his chest and laid it across the table, “Let me sell your culture!”
Into the window she peers, and from her position
She can see the water rising on the eastern shore.
“Like a military weapon?” The gentleman cry across the table.
Perplexed by progression, the white-washed men
Gather like hungry dogs waiting for a morsel.
Coiled tightly with aggressive ambition,
They foam at the mouth with desire: Fill us with the erotic disease of luxury!
We are God!
Such a wicked smile, Desdemona decides.
This stranger is the pressure in the wind.
“Back to your daffodils!”
Like a believer, she returns.
“A grizzly muzzle with a clean barrel,
Steel receiver and coiled grip.
Is your blood born with passion?
Rival your emotions with power.
You are God!” The stranger explains in broken tongue.
“A military weapon!”
Desdemona exclaimed as she peered from her dune of daffodils.
“I am a military weapon. I am God. Lay your hands to my feet!”
It was then that Desdemona began drooping with dread,
Struck by damnation!
“The day my dainty daffodils dropped dead.”