What is there that we can do or say
will sustain them
in those islands
where the sun was made for janitors?

What is there that we can say or do
will tear the years
from out the hands
of those who man the island galleys,

will bring them home and dry and mend them
bring them back
to celebrate
with us the song and dance and toil of living?

What is it that we must do or say
for children scattered
far from home
by hawks let loose to stay the judgment day?

The weeds run riot where our house is fallen
ourselves we roam
the wilderness.
‘Go tell them there across the seas go tell him,’

so they say, ‘his mother’s dead six years,
he dare not come
he dare not write
the stars themselves have eyes and ears these days.’

You who fell before the cannon or
the sabred tooth
or lie on hallowed
ground: oh tell us what to say or do.

So many routes have led to exile since
your day our Elders
we’ve been here
and back in many cycles oh so many:

no terrain different drummers borrowed
dreams, and there
behind us now
the hounds have diamond fangs and paws of
steel.

No time for dirge or burial without corpses:
teach us, Elders,
how to wait
and feel the centre, tame the time like masters,
sing the blues
so pain will bleed and let the islands in,
for exile is a ghetto of the mind.