An entry in the Crocodile Prize
Kina Securities Award for Poetry
My home is not your tourist attraction,
No supermarket for colourful trinkets and toys.
Our bows and arrows still kill game and foes, on untamed reservations where we rule.
We planted yar trees for millennia before your cowboy carbon trading.
My home is not your adulterous playground,
No sweetshop/sweatshop for pedophilic migrants or philanthropic vagrants.
Our living cultures are to be observed with reverence for the savage dignity of our ancients.
We will not bow to foreign gods no matter what your enticements.
My home is not your smorgasbord menu,
No delicatessen for your conspicuous consumption.
Our rural livelihoods have kept us fed despite your urban avarice.
We are utterly biodegradable, while even your manure lasts for eons.
My home is not for your upper-crust business class citizens,
No blithe, blind, blunt, neo-barbarian brute should sun bake on our beaches or bathe in our mountain spas.
Our natural habitats are not a hospital for your sick and handicapped refugees of modernity.
We never put a 99 year lease on the air we breathe.
My home is not for your capitalist considerations,
No value added, duty free, WTO compatible tax holiday trade agreement for my homelands.
Our lives belong to the land unlike your vice versa, vain, Viagra-value system.
We gave generational blood, sweat and tears to our land for which cash is no recompense.
My home is not your hotel in the Pacific.
Where sails my peace: Where soars my soul
Where sings my blood: Where stirs my bones
Where sweets my dreams: Where sleeps my love
There stands my home.