Here is where a real fresco should be painted, one without importance, but one with real faith, mapless, Historyless. - Derek Walcott

…and either I’m nobody, or I’m a nation.

I do not live in you, I bear
my house inside me, everywhere

until your winters grow more kind
by the dancing firelight of mind

where knobs of brass do not exist
whose doors dissolve in tenderness

House that lets in, at last, those fears
that are its guests, to sit on chairs

feasts on their human faces, and
takes pity simply by the hand

shows her her room, and feels the hum
of wood and brick becoming home.

Who with the Devil tries to play fair,
weaves the net of his own despair.
Oh, smile; what’s a house between drunkards?