Return to Omalass

I returned to Omalass.

I returned by ship on friendly sea,
greeted by the coast guard,
escorted to warm sandy shores.

I returned to the land,
I returned to the people,
and the people's country.

The years had been kind to me
The years had been cruel to the evil doers.
The old had faded, their names had passed
like wind over reeds, like ice
melts in the winter garden when the sun
shines on the people, in the people's country.

The wind had blown far and wide, and spread
a message of peace to the people in their land,
a message of prosperity to the disenfranchised,
'we are all Citizens now.'

But the seasons change, and guests are not
inhabitants, though they beg you to stay,
guests have a shelf life,
and trees which bear no fruit,
have no bounty to share beyond the colored season
in the lands and in the homes of the people.

Shades of gray fade as darkness falls again on the people
and on the people's land.
Light comes from torches, fire illuminates the skyline
and walls are tended to keep the hidden folk away
from their hearths.

No more guests, this evening.

I returned to Omalass,
but wish to leave my footprints where they fell,
where the expatriate played at being
the prodigal son, but could not tolerate the sins
of the father in the father's house.

Could not stomach the taste of bitter water,
and sour milk,
could not see the poor be cast to the jaws,
to the iron jaws of the dank jails and the cold
well lit streets.

I returned to Omalass expecting ruin,
expecting collapsing new structures
to dot the horizon as they had in the Old World.

I will to leave the land of the people yet again,
and set coarse for a quieter country,
and a quieter land of people,
I yearn to turn my back, and lie in the shadow
of the headless empire in one of the fallen lands.
Where they speak dead languages of dead empires,
where the fruit is as fresh as the air is musty,
and where streets team with human life.

I yearn to find my place among the dispossessed,
again among the farmers
again among the wives,
again among the fallen heroes who's voices
were silenced by the new world's thirsty arms.

And though those arms may come again to embrace this 'other' land,
and find me there among the lesser people
of the earth, let them come.

Let them drag me to Golgotha,
Let them try.

Let them cry 'Take Him to the Cross! Black Trader!
Crucify him and scatter his remains!'
Let them try.

Let them find me, twice removed from the eagle's
hard breast, whose milk, though t'was cold,
did nourish my body.

Let them whisper in my ear, as the hours fall in a white room.

Let them beg for my return.
Let them implore for me to see reason,
and return again as a fool.

Let them try,
Let them cry for me,
Let them yearn to see me fold.
I will be here should they wish to find me.

I will be waiting with the quiet people
in the shadow of Chimera,
waiting to see them rear their heads
against their native son once more
and remind them in a whisper,
who is watching
who is present

Them, and me, my people, our God
and history, watching,
waiting for the hammer to fall,
waiting for history to give us permission
to forget the name and the language of the People,
and the People's Land.

I returned to Omalass a guest,
Let me walk away again forever.