POTOSI

Was once the biggest town in the Americas.
Also the richest. It made the pieces of eight
Pirates dreamt of plundering. Imported its food
From the coast. Produced more silver than anywhere
Else, ever.

The silver was taken from the mountain which hangs over
The city, Cerro Rico. Held sacred by the Incas,
A Pachamama, untouchable. But when the Spanish
Learnt what lay beneath, they sent the slaves to work, milked them
To death.

Some say the silver bankrolled Europe’s growth, financed the
Conquest of the globe. It’s not done much for Bolivian
Development. Helped build some fancy churches; Unesco
Patronage. But in the streets the locals, raw-toed in sandals,
March.

They march round the square, demanding justice, demanding it
Now. Dogs copulate on street corners. Children beg for sweets.
Cold and dust and the piss-stench of poverty: Potosi
Has none of the grandeur of some faded European
Beauty.

It is poor and life is hard. All the fine-looking churches
And all the silver which passed through its mint, all the
Wealth it’s produced, spent now, by strangers, have left the
Marchers nothing. They must be tempted to rip it up, and
Start again.



8.10.04