Binoculars clasped firmly in hands, despite trembling with terror, Spans the vision over bloody rivers and morgue mutated lands. The sight is horrific, as rigormortis and spent shells cloud the diaspora's lens. Amidst the azure Caribbean blue, in the land of w's squared, The Carib Indians who never came have reincarnated themselves In the souls of a people who are tearing their future's flesh apart, Not with bow and arrows, but with ballistic bullets of Babylon. The ghosts of docility manifested in Tainos never walk here anymore. Instead, the buccaneer brutality now lives on in the gory ghetto. Swollen cadavers mirror sunken hopes and dreams deferred, For the motto of this isle is now a mockery of its existence. One people are cannibals of themselves, of you and I. Out of many, few tainos but many caribs empowered With the desire to rub our disintegrated future's flesh all over their dons' garrisons for potency once more To carry out the pillage ordered by neo Henry Morgans. So, we the exiled ones, watch from our binoculars, to sigh every time, a spent shell ricochets in our patriotic souls.