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.

Ancient Proverbs: 4 – Oglala Lakota Wisdom.

“Upon suffering beyond suffering the Red Nation shall rise again and it shall be a blessing for a sick world; a world filled with broken promises, selfishness and separations; a world longing for light again.”  – Crazy Horse, Oglala

wounded-knee-2The Oglala Lakota people are collectively interchangeable with the descendants of the one of the worst National Memories belonging to the US: Pine Ridge Reservation in South Dakota, home to  the National Memorial Site of the notorious massacre of over 250 Lakota, at Wounded Knee Creek in 1890. They represent a long history of violated treaties and broken promises on the part of US government. In 1980, after the longest-running court case in US history, the US Supreme Court ruled that the Black Hills territory, land sacred to the Lakota, had been seized illegally after gold was discovered there in 1874. The court awarded a compensation payment of US$ 106 million, but the tribe refused the money and demanded return of the lands, instead. This is a tribe that has endured against the most tremendous of odds throughout history, and one that I deeply respect and admire as a whole.

Tribal Atrocity.

Tribal Atrocity.

Tribal Atrocity.

Where have we all gone, we, of the continental Wind Song?
Our tribes have scattered; from one corner to the other;
crossing boundaries belonging to another,
brute forces, pumped with the same blood that courses –
through these veins, aye – I am ashamed;
although I would not make a single change…
Where have all of the Eagles flown, do they, like us – have no home?
Our people were have shattered; from head to toe bone;
seeming contented with the wastelands we roam,
stolen prophecies, war-fared and small-poxed into atrocities –
bronzed statuesque, yes – we gave our best;
our collective spirit can still rise against…
Where has the Greatness led, buried beneath the bones of our dead?
Our soils are born of, a strong blood, it bleeds true…sky to sand;
our grandfathers’ names burn testimonial ink through our hands;
deceitful lies, maintains so much blood in my eyes –
I cannot see, there – and they cannot see me;
A native who is a foreigner in her eldest forefather’s country.