Inside looking out, snow is falling and I am thinking how
happy we once were, when promises and dreams came
easy and how when we, lovers covered only by a warm

Eldoret night, your slender hand waved a prophecy
- a shooting star and you said, "when the time comes, we
shall name our first child, Kenya" and how I laughed

and said "yes our child then shall be country and human"
and we held hands, rough and toughened by shelling
castor seeds. My dear, when did our clasped hands

become heavy chains and anchors holding us to the mines
and diamond and oil fields? Our hands roughened by love
and play, these same hands – when did they learn to grip

a machete or a gun to spit hate? And this earth that drinks
our blood like a hungry child, this earth that we have
scorched to cinders - when we are done eating it, how

much of it will be left for Kenya? My dear, our child
is born, is dying. Tomorrow the child will be dead.

UW-Madison, Jan. 3rd, 2007
Commissioned by The World Today – BBC News