Homeland

The first thing the Pilgrims plant
Are the bodies of the dead;
Half of everything they were
When they embarked
Succumbed to sea and soil

This unspeakable loss
Buried in the night
Seeds the harvest yet to come;
They are forsaken,
And soak the ground with catastrophe.

The first thing the Pilgrims meet
Is not kindness
But their own mortality;
And the loss of all benevolence
Gets folded in a prayer

And on their knees they face away
From the leaving of the world
And the coming of the cold
With eyes clenched tight
Fear is all they see

The first thing the Pilgrims thank
Is god to be alive;
And in their isolation
I wonder if the loss
Killed everything they found

Without homeland or mercy
Terror was the harvest;
Without love
Vengeful was the god;
Without giving