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The "ranaways" colour themselves,
Scooping saffron and silver and copper-green
From the old shell casings, forgotten on mantle-pieces
Sparkle shims on their Tungus hair, knotted strong,
They brown their feet in the mud dust,
They dance round and round to the drums,
Valves from the arteries of the Earth
That beat up blood and lava to Aztec altars,
Their drum-tummies teach cicadas music,
Their minds are free of your evil spell,
In what forest remains, the "ranaways" dance,
Feeling the chain-saws sparking through their bones,
They are whirling, like ropes of water and light,
Like the eagle rounding in air. See them!
Send out the men with the nets, and the needles —
Bring 'em back! Read the old manuals
Of the Slave Trade — brand 'em, tin snip their nostrils,
Prune an ear lobe! The Belgian Congo, what a beauty!
Lop a hand, a foot. Publish a photo.
This! This is what happens to "ranaways"!
They'll learn. No-one can run away
When all the forests are level
Where will they hide then?

But these "ranaways" are your children,
What are they running away from?
I'll leave the answer open,
Like the whitened sepulchre,
When they rolled the stone away.
... Denis Kevans