...

colonial children play in the sun, a pedantic kind of dance on merry ash where the blacktops burn and dry away the tears, where a grimaced cry looks like a joyful smile, and the heat it gets so bad not because of the burns the burns are only physical but the children cry oh they cry, but it dries their tears and they aimlessly chase each other in high noon blindness, they throw stones and sticks like primitive weapons, playing a game they don't yet know the name of, but if you could recall your childhood games there was never really a winner was there, just a loser, the first one to bleed and fall and cry and end the game, not in this land though, no everyone's a winner because the sun dries your tears with mercurial fetish, a cold mother for a band of bastard orphans who don't know left from right, why if you saw them you'd ask why they're running in circles. 

But they're smarter than the rest, they've started their pathways on quickly, the parents only run bigger and bigger circles, and they stay inside where the sun still blasts through the shallow glue that binds the cracks that breaks the backs that tightens the slack like the whip they felt a hundred times before a brain shaped like a brand its a far better score than the iron some say when you raise your hands they run away, youre God we're Not, look at how bullets stop, before they hit you a divinity if there ever was one, now I believe in miracles, and Christ and I'll pray and pray til they take my sons and daughters away and my kingdom turns to ash on which the children will play, so small it becomes that they create a new game, where they run around it in circles, sometimes tripping over it because of the high noon blindness, and the first one to bleed is always the loser.