Terra cotta photographs line the books
with soldiers stiff, with broken arms and
wall after wall of bricks and clay belie
the wealth that makes the country
Rich in humanity and poor in progress
But she blooms time once again; more earth
moves back, away, revealing more soldiers
in earthen garb that do not know how
to protect their infants from their fathers
and mothers who cry when its a girl.
And we pay whole retirement accounts
to see you.
“O, what a piece of work”
How can he always be right?