It was only after your death that I realised
why you disliked windy weather
crossing the broad Atlantic
while still a boy
for arms and food
needed at home.
I never knew exactly why
or what exactly those hypocrites  at the orphanage
did to you
but I will not forget
and I will not forgive.

I only knew that you were buried
with a back full of the white scars
inflicted by those sadistic bastards,
those Christian missionaries
of the hungry thirties,
on the backs of those babes
who dared to be born 
illegitimately.

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