Conquistador Poem by Stug Jordan

His smile is a zigzag on stone,
a face carved into a silent megalith.

His officers are represented by rocks;
small, well-rounded generals.

In the morning new blood will weep
and cry its way to heaven

on the back of a lime-washed bird,
its eyes two jewels and clouds for wings.

A simple Spaniard will be taken,
a cook from one of the camps.

And placed on these stones, a meal
for Thee, to take them all, Our Lord,

and spit them back into the sea.