A problem like a cheap, black stonein the treasure box of my country.The people here make of readiness, brilliancean idle toy.How clever it is to bear so much of an unpilfered mind,but to thieve one’s life of chance and careby way of a reigning mould,a road set to vanquish travel by design.We could have been the greenest applein the eye of a fruitful world, but chose insteadto cross ourselves.We could have brought sumps, dear plenitudesto earth, straightened-out the crooked timber of a lie.