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| Armless In St. Croix The stones of the sugar mill weep to the ground, weathered and old they succumb. Long gone are their arms, that greeted the wind with bright sails, that ground sweetness for rum! Overgrown with acacia, these sentinels stand as grave markers for Danes and an industry gone. Their windows, stark eyes, keep watch o'er the fields, long abandoned, when freedom was won. Dotting the hillsides are dying estates, neglected and crumbling with age. They serve to remind the natives here of his ancestors duty as slaves. So on lives a legacy, born of hate and the walls that were built on that stage, Instead of the pride that should come with freedom to make use of what could be saved ... The arms that built them now lie in their graves, the arms that moved them the same. While the arms that could make them a home for their own, just can't see, what for me, is so plain! A jewel of an island, in a turquoise sea and a setting of tropical bliss; Take care my friends, to save what you have, before it becomes what you miss! Joy A. Burki-Watson |
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