The Islands

Hello Americans, this is Orson Welles. Southward, then from the Florida Keys, towards the huge pole of the Caribbean, towards the classic islands, the Bahamas, the Lower, the Winders, the Antilles, scattered like a hundred stones live.

Columbus touched land there, San Salvador and Cuba, stepping stone for the conquistadors, The island, the indies, spice and rum and the green jungles, the Spanish-made. Rum-keen cooked island passage, third silent passage, Prophet Encialis, Ragged Island, Tongue of the Ocean Channel, all the names written in blood and legend, named for the the mood of massacre, the sweep of the sea, named for heroes and hell, between the finger

of Cuba to the west and the small island of Puerto Rico to the east, before the island stream out like a comical southward, lies the island of Santa Domingo, as the Minican Republic, and Haiti, and white beaches and cliffs where the surf rides in for miles.

Where boats dock from African runs, heavy with slaves, built with the gunnels with chained men. Here one of them stands stripped, tied to the map with his eyes blazing. He looks ahead, his lips do not open.

He is the son of God we know, King of Aradocs of an African tribe, built with a French, the Spanish, the English, whoever they tried. Who built with this man that's king? King, I think 10 pieces of gold.

10 pieces for this giant. Only 10 pieces for these shoulders. 20 pieces for the French nobleman. The son of a king. This image of God. Sold with his eyes and hair and blood. 20 pieces take him.

Sold and gold. To have and to hold. To put pen to stars. He'll death to you, Park. Oh slave and Max, haunted island. Who do place? The road of drums, robbing in the hills of night.