To My Son

—on the tenth anniversary of Western Samoa’s independence.

By Albert Wendt

Don’t despise me in your dawn beauty, my Polynesian viking son.

We inhabit the same nightmare.

Ebb-tides fling up tomorrow’s creatures silhouetted in today’s computerised sunsets: stalking crab and barracuda devour the vision of our dead prophets in a decade of betrayal.

With me the smother of well groomed blubber, the slow bleed of expensive compromise dis colours conscious, chokes even the tough weeds of anger.

Noose of silver bow tie and mafia sunglasses shuts out healing sun, hides precariously the decay of a whiskey respectability. (Our nation’s dreams drown in the insatiable cocktail glass).

I’m left with envying you: youth keeps the muscles from falling, upwards pointing to godhead clear as that first independence morning when our prophets foretold universal image and symbol, a new brotherhood.

Now, the incessant gaggle of babel entombed in the air-conditioned promise of tourist miracle, the grope of steel and plastic, lean politicians whispering in the market await freedom’s fat limousine.

Our genteel age is the diplomatic night of the civilised savage, of mutant claw and hiss, the sphinx smile of the new merchant barbarian.

I’m afraid to know the depth of your terror. (I too have betrayed you). Stay angry Your only lifejacket in the nightmare to unweave.