IX.

In the heart of suburbia

There dwells an aching void which fails

To be molified by feeble

Attempts to placate. Here the dry

Bed of ancient stream languishes

Overgrown with vegetation.

Wild souls pacified by toys and 

Glitter, such vapid amusements

While bones ache for substance. We are

Citizens without nation; the

Self-imposed exiles of richer

Provinces, condemned to shallow

Lives lived without root. O Lord let

Us explore the loam, dig deeper

To be a people of a place.

Bind us together with sinews

Of memory and time, bonds of

Community and love. May our

Bones resonate with River, street,

Song. May we be a people whose

Blood runs with history rather

Than a history running with

Blood. Satisfy us with richer

Fare than circumspect but hollow

Isolation masking itself

As independence. Write our names

Upon the roads. Stamp legacies

In the bricks. Cause our gardens

To flourish with yeilds hundredfold.