Tribal Atrocity.

Where have we all gone,
we, of the Continental Song?
Our tribes have scattered;
from one corner to the other;
crossing the boundary,
belonging to another,
blue-blooded dandy forces,
imposed upon the blood that courses –
through these very veins,
alas, half of me is ashamed…
Where have all of the Eagles flown,
do they, like us – call no place “home”?
Our people were shattered;
from head to toe bone;
put off on our own,
in the wastelands we roam,
stolen sacred prophecies,
small-poxed, drunken atrocities –
bronzed statuesque,
yes, we gave our very best…
Where has the great sacrifice led?
Buried beneath the bones of our dead,
Our soils grow green trees born of,
a chisel-cheeked dark, strong blood,
it bleeds red and true…from sky to sand;
our forefathers’ burn fires through our hands;
deceitful lies, so much blood in our eyes –
I can hardly see through–
but they can see me with my mixed skin,
and I’m just as confused as any of them.

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