by Nick Gisburne
They welcome us, the warmth of open arms
But soon we steal the secret of their graves
Beneath the beads, the superstitious charms
A treasure every greedy drifter craves
A jewel, priceless, where the heart is not
We take them all, for this is what men do
The bodies, unprotected, twist and rot
The tribes protest, but challenges are few
We wonder if the living are the same
Perhaps they too have precious hearts to hide
A speculative murder lights the flame
For brutal, unrelenting genocide
But when the last is slaughtered by our lust
We find their hearts, our fortune, turned to dust
