Dark with power, we remain
the invaders of our land, leaving
deserts where forests were,
scars where there were hills.
On the mountains, on the rivers,
on the cities, on the farmlands
we lay weighted hands, our breath
potent with the death of all things.
Pray to us, farmers and villagers
of Vietnam. Pray to us, mothers
and children of helpless countries.
Ask for nothing.
We are carried in the belly
of what we have become
toward the shambles of our triumph,
far from the quiet houses.
Fed with dying, we gaze
on our might’s monuments of fire.
The world dangles from us
while we gaze.