With feelings of foreboding,
we watched;
an Arawak and I,
perched high,
on a laurier tree
in the hills of Iere,
we watched three strange ships
with long white wings
riding the winds
above the sea,
watched them sail to shore and land
strange looking strangers,
strange white-skinned men
with long white crests and dewlaps
and long straight bows we later learned
spit thunder.
Thus began,
with axe and machete in hand,
the wanton clearing of my land.
Later, other strangers came;
strange men with ebony skin and iron chains
around their dewlaps,
then men with brown skin like the first peoples
and yellow skin like ripe pineapples.
Later still, appeared the skidder and the Stihl
with demon power designed to kill
the forest and her fledglings.
My friend, the Arawak, has long succumbed
'cept for a few straggling souls,
struggling for survival
and recognition.
I swear by my blue wattle
I have witnessed many battles
'tween Papa Bois and people
as he strove and strove to save us
from Conquistador's colonial curse
and heartless hunter's blunderbuss.
I, Pipile pipile,
better known as Pawi,
ask not for your pity,
but that you open eyes and see
that I am you and you are me.
Lose me and you would have lost
your way, your self, your soul;
I am this nation's survival--
I am this nation's past,
its present ...
its patrimony.
I am Pipile pipile,
Spirit of this island and its people.
Copyright ©2010 by G. Newton V. Chance
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