The Tribune

EDITOR, The Tribune

A poem of national reflection:

I cry thee, Bahamaland: I’m sorry.

We know not what we do.

We, who take all from your sweet land and sea, but return only the foulest waste.

This blood that stains your bosom, shed for reasons of greed and hatred.

We, hearts corrupt and minds ignorant, who rape you of your resources.

We know not what we do.

We, who hate each other for sexual orientation or country or affiliation or belief.

For petty things.

We, who preach our compassion but deny charity.

We, who throw our garbage on you, or ignore the litter already shaming you.

We, who kill your plants and animals, crumble your land, smog your sunshine and taint your ocean.

We know not what we do.

Should your air become toxic and your seas rise from our pollution,

Should your oceans empty of life from our contamination and hunting,

Should your roads run red from our evils,

Should your soil grow sour and your hospitality cease,

I will understand.

I cry thee, I’m sorry, my sweet Bahamaland.

NICK STONE

December 12, 2015