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.

Demise.

Like the talons attached to an otherwise, free bird;

A catch of its jagged edges, never we mind;

The snagging of a delicate thread – loss for word;

The snuffing out of the scent we’ve scattered to find.

The upheaval of oceans otherwise, swallowed depths;

The crash of its tumbling ledges, never we satisfy;

The repetitive histories of nations – not too many left;

An evolution into something born and bred of genocide.

Beneath the shifts in the shelves of the Earth,

Fed by the deepest roots of each living, breathing tree;

Beneath the magma and beyond the light of time’s birth,

Lays a carbon copy of everything we think and see.

A paper fortress twisted in the twirl of a tumbleweed;

Laced with spores off the floors that we stand in line to lick clean,

We are filthy – this thing called “humanity” – there’s no denying;

Our demise is solidified as deeply as the Mariani.

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.