Empire forte

Let an empire grow,

Of tender shoots and snow;

From the pores of your forte,

Lying in the rubbles of a fort.

Neighbours in house

They shout as you sleep deep in your shrine

Of banks, of ports…the regular sixty-nines,

Their voice more volatile than your troubled times

They are the Pariahs of known Parliamines!

Like the woods, they’ve taken fire after blows

From outsides and within; On mysteries they know,

On backbones and bellies, that’ve thrown out their ribs

Into a dome of weapons that clatters as you sleep.

You panic, you lineup, you repeat the word nation

That has ever seen you detach your organs, and ration

To become such a neuron, You may not understand

Their ways so cobweb to tell life from the land!

And lives for those lands, as Parliamines change faces

So does its foes, from spinning wheel to bayonet;

“A fence makes good neighbours”, that’s what we all are

Though you may think it as a house, and its members.

If you feel lost

Keep on walking boy

Your steps may falter, still;

The light house is across that bend

Where your captain is waiting for you.

His ship is wedged in the sand,

But it's a matter of tide and hope

To get it back to sailing;

Your captain needs your body

As much you need the compass he owns.