our mother wraps herself
in a toga of foreign threads.
she now lights a path for the new
order; the flames stolen from prometheus,
and those who toil take his place
on the rock at caucasus, where the order
picks their bones clean
and feeds the scraps to the clergy.
this is, first and foremost,
a greco-roman country, but god
comes second to empire,
ever-expanding to the unlit corners
of the earth. mother, liberty
lower your torch to the sands
in the homeland of david.
and if it fails to enlighten, let it scorch
the oild fields and potential
for evolution.
purge the dictators and invite
philip knight to force children
into factories to assemble new togas.
time and fortune has tarnished you
green, and our hopes were denied
when it was discovered that you were not
bound to the concrete platform.
until your foundation crumbles,
that phrasal symbolism
has the liberty to infect the world.