It is not so much for the inglorious past than the uninhabited future. Curious a child looks at the West every evening and wonders if the Sun will rise at all. On a chalked territory where the name starts selfishly with 'I' women wear iron-guards over breasts and men helmets, painted with ancient Gods Or assuring palms. Blessed be the Curls and marks on history as they are still practised in sharing gendered foetus, farmers' credits and votes. But there is hope, Of a determined future with darker truths, Of acquiring lands, women and innocent brains. So the predators wait. One day a bald with a stick heard wolves whisper - If they were giraffes they would have changed the colour of their flag.
Some Memories are hard to hold on So I put them on words.