Beautiful island of second chances,
wet leaves on sidewalks and
sepia-toned storefronts.
You were discovered by the poets,
colonized by the merchants
and invaded by the priests who
came looking for the hand of God.
When you were young men fought for you,
for their right to conquer and own you.
With their long phallic swords and their blood
they came and they fought and they stole.
Beautiful island
I first read your books
in the summer of my crossing.
In glimpses, now and again,
a vision of your one true language.
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