For Hernan Cortez
He stood on his mountain and sang,
Songs of deliverance and rape and torture,
He sat down and prayed to his lord:
His gold and his gems.
He cried out to his slaves,
To lay down their arms:
That would be severed,
If not an ounce of rare metal,
Dug from the mines.
And he dreamed of sickness.
Being the greatest soldier of all,
Taking care of the heathens—
Taking care of his swelling dignity.
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