Flags of our Fathers

I remember the old man say, his face in two, divided
he used to tell me of the land, broken yet guarded.
He told me of a lotus as it blooms in its rest,
and the moon reduced to a single moonly crest. 

He told me of harsh shouts, reddening the desert and heart,
still, no foreign banner conquered nor raised.
The mother waters and joining of five still lay,
following once intimate, peaceful  ways.

And all for that, none happened anew
a line across the limits drew,
nor guardianship was sought, nor blessing nor peace, 
banners raised were queer at least.

And the banner orange and green is called
the flags of two 'great' nations stand tall,
yet the river flows and we are one,
for those flags are not our fathers' at all.