A letter from the empire to himself

Alexia PdC

02 Nov 2025 — 1 min read

I yearn to be less stubborn, and willing to see the possibilities beyond myself
I am nearly 450 years old
Dusty and tired in every pore, and yet

Habits are hard to let go
I am the largest empire of all time
A quarter of the world’s land in my chokehold

I had it all - I took it all
Catastrophically rich, spiritually dead
Two world wars wrested the wealth, Saddled me with debt to the US Empire
My ungrateful offspring

I never recovered, not really

The colonised rebelled, shook me off

I tried to hold on with a fiction of common wealth
But the nations grew into their own form

Colonies, dominions, mandates and protectorates I once held - a list to comfort me:
Afghanistan, Antigua and Barbuda, Australia, the Bahamas, Bahrain, Bangladesh, Barbados, Belize, Botswana, Brunei, Cameroon, Canada, Cyprus, Dominica, Egypt, Eswatini, Fiji, the Gambia, Ghana, Grenada, Guyana, Hong Kong, India, Iraq, Ireland, Jamaica, Jordan, Kenya, Kiribati, Kuwait, Lesotho, Libya, Malawi, Malaysia, Maldives, Malta, Mauritius, Myanmar.
Nauru, New Zealand, Nigeria, Oman, Palestine, Pakistan, Papua New Guinea, Qatar, Saint Lucia, Saint Kitts and Nevis, Saint Vincent and the Grenadines, Scotland, Seychelles, Sierra Leone, Singapore, Solomon Islands, Somaliland, South Africa, South Yemen, Sri Lanka, Sudan, Tanzania, Tonga, Trinidad and Tobago, Turtle Island, Tuvalu, Uganda, United Arab Emirates, Vanuatu, Zambia, Zanzibar, Wales,
Zimbabwe.

I make the masses forget,
By not telling my full horror on English soil
My lie: for 412 million indigenous people and their land, I was nothing but good

The British did not know their story
Til the Empire started coming to them
Bidden by a government fresh out of human resources
And a bombed-out country desperate to hear it was still Great

Youngsters know my time is up
Can feel the thinness of my flag flapping in the grey wind
The Butcher’s Apron re-summoning my gammon army

The King looks old and tired
And so am I
The end, soon come

Where are the words

When the air is wet and your hands are cold in your room Called to be in hibernation for three to four months The system denies that mammalian softness, as it tears all of us from our natural needs A candle burning on the slate hearth of my rented room

Hold the pose

Vogue, strike a pose. Shed your clothes. Hold for 10 minutes. Feel the slow burn. Scritch scritch, scratch. “10 minutes left” In the break I walk around the room slowly, taking in the many versions of myself. Held by the artists’ gaze, I am a powerful solid body, beautiful to

Maltese musings

A few short thoughts from the archipelago that is Malta. I had a good time, would recommend esp for spoonie rest. Malta, a place of many empires meeting melting mouthing “we were here, too” The British were last, carving out there ‘politeness’ into the limestone Mdina – Arabic for city – was

Gather

Allow Me To Gather You, And Your Name After Mahmoud Darwish Allow me to know you, in my heart As you know your land, your home, your love Allow me to taste the joy of olives and watermelons grown with the care of a thousand ancestors Allow me to feel

Read more

Where are the words

Hold the pose

Maltese musings

Gather