i.   after all   the world to you, young waif, is first a hammock torn almost to shreds then sour milk from your mother's breasts she of the iron will in from the noonday sun.   ii.   what to you as now she rocks you gently the songs of anger on her lips (beneath, the stifled sorrow) or the litany of certain death to the tyrants still enthroned amidst pools of blood with courage shed: those of the man she loved and other patriots?   iii.   she rocks you gently: "dream our dreams, dear child, wield our weapons."   iv. and your father. what to you the day he looked to the mountain of your birth to the land he never owned and held in his calloused hands for the first time in his life a rifle for the plow?   V.   o, your father's blood! would you know as then he rocked you gently his hatred for the exploiters was as intense as was his love for the people or that now way beyond his lowly lonely grave cries of defiance reverberate ever to avenge it. vi.   he rocked you gently: "Dream our dreams, dear child, wield our weapons." vii.   sleep. long the afternoon. let innocence be your mantle shrouding your early years until when older discover eternity caught and clenched in the palm of your hand, too,   after all.