The Gate

The wood fence, my father built, broke at the crossroads,
Here intersected by an iron gate,
With captured cattle, branded with Fate.

There an old man, holding a baby wrapped in rags,
Sneered and pointed at calender's ending day,
"Its the fiscal year my dear, don't worry well take
care of it, no need to fear."

He washed the political ash off his sinister hand,
And marked the fresh born with tribal bands.
"And this one here is mine and ours, to the family they
are born for us to deem how to water and grow."

Then tucking the child behind his silk coat, he smiled
with his victory began to gloat. "We have won without a gun!
At night we signed the papers! Your rel estate is gone!"

And taking his emblem pin, which he wore,
stabbed us through the heart,
Colored blood to wash the floor.

"You should have read the subtext, didn't I
say after your father's dream you would come next?
You cannot blame me!" He smiled morally free,
"It was you who did not see!"

He turned then back to the gate,
And painted it many colors,
The official decree of late.