My Grandmother’s kitchen was made up of Iron Pots.
Iron susceptible to charque firewood.
That reminded me so much of Iroko forests.
She would scrape off gathered black ashes
...
Give me the scorn of the stars and a peak defiant;
Wail of the pines and a wind with the shout of a giant;
Night and a trail unknown and a heart reliant.
Give me to live and love in the old, bold fashion;
A soldier's billet at night and a soldier's ration;
A heart that leaps to the fight with a soldier's passion.