All I have inherited are the faults
That one generation passes on to the next.
I had the intention to succeed, I could have manufactured something true.
But my good deeds were carried out in the wrong context.
My sins are like grains of sand, a maelstrom
Of crimes and misdemeanours, wound tight about my bones.
While my spirit cries out to the fathomless vacuum of the night
About an exile from a home it’s never known.
About how I was the steward of all the darkness that my forefathers shared with me.
And I bear the tribal wounds as badges of pride. All the ancient resentments. The miscellany of faults.
Yet this land could have prospered if I could have shed the shackles of the past.
But instead I sowed fresh seeds in this soil cried out from my own tears of salt.
© 2019 | Frank Regan, All rights reserved.