• Vol. 08
  • Chapter 09


Long we journeyed
and crossed an ocean,
zither and melodeon in hand.

Yolk of oppression at our backs,
beacon of hope ahead –
an emerald lady. Well … poetically so –
siren of promises
to a world of wounded souls.

Aspirations on transparent faces,
Ready to work hard and sleep little.
Diligence and commitment were our
standards – flags of our fealty.

I still wear the same suit to Mass on Sunday,
and to my grandchild’s wedding -
the reception in a public park,
the grape cheap and the melodeon wheezy.
Filipo plucks the wrong strings,
but he’s not alone.
Is he, people?