We the also sentient salute you, foreign child.
We watch you take our reins.
We listen to your impatience.

The whip falls. We start.

You drive us down long roads
of any life you don’t maintain.

You kill what doesn’t please you,
flatter you, yield profit.

You decide.

My brother’s skull surveys your trophy room.

My sister’s pleas
preserved under clouding amber
amuse your child.

You open up empire
in homes we used to have.

There was memory
in that skull.

There was promise
in those pleas.

You drive us
those of us you keep
through meadows
of concrete.

We pretend you have reasons
to do this.

The last bird of summer
has joined the bees that died
this spring.

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