Survival is the tongue of attempts.
Tomorrow is diaspora’s brethren.
Coins of big-footed lands weigh
heavy on our throats. Their tables
polish with our sweat and tears.
Mouths feed on the conquered.
From here to there, the climb
frailed our heels. The machines
are turning. Spines bleed, hurling.
The towers push us down. It is
the blizzard that erases us. Blizzard.
Theirs. Chains. Ours.