The Iron Horse
The Iron heart beats with a bloody purpose,
Upon the tracks– goodbye to yesterday.
Culture gone, the native wild beast tamed,
No more scabs shining in the sun.
The blister of difference, upon the protruding finger,
Is drained, pillaged and cut away.
Gated, reserved and initiated.
Where nature’s great companion vanishes,
Once lost, now asphyxiated.
