WHEN THE MISSIONARIES CAME

 To dissuade me of my despair,

I stood open-mouthed, a simple convert

Parroting the views of my white saviors

Before long I fell into the language of the past

My totems, mother tongue

What made thrift of that religion

Now I go to join the ranks of the weary

Watchers, falling to fossil

Growing moribund

I'll sit here in the dust until I see him,

Dark Galilean 

Son—