You stand concrete still,
glass eyed lover.
I have no answers to this cusp
we find ourselves teetering.
You hold the torch my forefathers
cried upon beholding
their prayers answered.
Is it now to be a tourist attraction
scraping knees with oil rigs,
soda cups and the spit of gods?
What did ghosts of warriors fight for
if not for the huddled masses
seeking freedom from tyranny and the British fist.
We must now resist the fist from within.