It Is A Whistle

When the cattle died, then we were farmers
When the drought came, then we were soldiers
When the soldiers came, then we were slaves

The smells
copper and meat

The sounds
flies and jackals

The sights.

The cyclopean sun stares down
a thousand winking eyes reflected back
and for this boy, my son
a stone, a splash, the flies.

This well is poison, like the last
the bodies of children quartered and dropped
into that blessed, cursed darkness
but they will not be slaves.

Brass
everywhere, brass follows death.

This boy, my son
sees, breaks with dirt fingers
a splinter from the sun's reflected eye
and that reflection dies.

It was Death, and now is spent
and when he blows just so
It is a Whistle, and the flies and jackals go.