How it will be

By Eti Sa’Aga

This is how I think it will be, When the cool Virus of Progress Spreads slowly over These islands, Covering the warmth Of the healing sun, The face of every man: That is, When the phallic towers Pierce the womb Of the skies, And jets, Like mosquitoes, Hum my dreams Into nightmares Of sterile materialism; Where mountains crumble Under a synthetic green, Whose serenity Will not again chant The hymns of the ages, But vomit only a sweet fragrance Of burnt plastic waste; Where seas harvest Only shadows Of dead fish, And dry fingers of coral Will be corroded Into white sand By acidic waves.

And I Shall take my counselling From movies, And instructions From advertisements In daily newspapers.

Then half-baked With a thin veneer of culture And a smattering knowledge Of technology, I shall send My children To the temples Of the money worshippers To learn the gospel Of the miracle makers And give praise To all papalagi Who come in With cameras.

Then aged And highly decorated For a fake loyalty To the country’s culture, I shall cherish These islands In the common graveyard Of a polluted wilderness.