El Dorado

Men set out from Iberia's western shore,
children all of Ferdinand and Isabella and pious
Roman Emperor, Maximillian. Pope Borgia sat in
Rome with women and song.

Fabled cities of gold held their hearts,

Hernan Cortes drove on through Mexico till
fearsome Sun of Light Moctezuma did he see,
By quirk of history and a flu, his hand held mighty Tenochtitlán
And Spain squeezed this city dry.

Rivers of blood from temple height,
had flown before that summer's night,
but new liquid did men of Europe seek,
that of gold and all its power to keep.

Under Pizzarro, the Incas fell to lay foundations for
modern Europe's land. And while monk Luther pinned
protests to Roman doors, Peter's sons did by bulls create
Gods from mere men.

And still they squeezed the precious gold from streets of Mexico
to men of war. They say 70 million died this way
from foreigners' sword and virus's play.
That gold that built a continent is burnished black,
with memories of brown man's broken back.

How modern are we, the civilised from sea to sea,
but what we need to hear is truth's hidden fee,
that our golden gaze breeds that same demonic haze,
that ruled the earth for three longest days.

And on our cultured European streets,
just as Cortes' clothed equine feet
our feet are cloved with finest leathered chic.

We fight and kill for Eldorado still.