Murris, your obsession with maps starts at a young age.
Makes sense when you’ve had land stolen from you.
You’re piling over the graph knowing you’re
underneath those imposed lines.
A type of fever Derrida would have been proud of.
After staring long enough, the sharpened edge of the border
looks pretty though you did not approve its hacking.
Dugulumba is rendered blue and spilling forth.
The mountain of your grandmother is flung as a cross.
Last time you breathed the mountain it was shrouded in cloud.
Why are borders always black.
Do they look back, even distantly?
Grandmother mountain sitting on the colonial axis
unbothered by the audacious attempts to divide Country.