His very footfall charred the African sand.
Flames of foretold empire licking his heels,
Aeneas on his way stepped forth on land,
and stayed. The furrows carved by his ships' keels
bore rivers through desert and forest. Flooding plains
with plunder of diamond, ivory and gold,
his men made men plough under the salted rains
of Dido's, and nations', weeping. Worldwide he sold
the pure, clear pearl of sweat from the black man's back.
The hot wind captive in smouldering Trojan sails
his helicopter gunships in swift attack
released as village-burning napalm gales—
and Dido dead in the grass: no time for tears,
no killing the flames for three thousand years.
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