They say the Gods live
           up on the hill,

but it hadn’t always 
           been so.

First, there was infanticide,
           Native Sons gone to grist and gristle,

until patricide reigned
           only to postpone the tyranny.

Then a capital hill rose
           to a mountain built on 

lighting and sea and
           the scent of death

Where the Gods still 
           devour the children of the poor

in their land. They are guilty too,
           but pretend they are not.

This time, abused Mother Gaia
          may not have the strength

to secret us away,
         us freshly children of her womb.