Foreign boots may tread on her-
Your native soil.
She may rot beneath those pale, unfamiliar feet as they pillage and rape,
But she will not forget you.
Every olive born from her steadfast trees,
Every poppy bloomed from countless seeds,
Every speck of gold her sun reveals,
Every drop of oil her wells retrieve,
Belong to you,
Her native child.
Your native soil will not forget you.
She will curdle the food they steal from her
The moment it falls into their pitless stomachs.
She will eat at their skin with her bright light
And paint them devil-red.
She will sterilize beneath their greedy hands,
Starving them like they starved you.
She will taste your spilled blood on her land
And she will crack open the soil
And swallow each trespasser whole.
For they may colonize her,
Rip out her roots,
Tear down her branches until she stands bare,
Dry up her seas,
But native is a truth
She will never let them be.
And though I may be far away, she calls to me,
My native soil.
She blesses me with a beating sun
That paints me gold where others burn,
Blows humid winds into my hair until it curls with joy,
Feeds me precious, strange fruits that sate a hunger rattling in my bones--
She knows me, welcomes me, though we have never met
And someday, I’ll return to her
My native soil.
No Comments.