Tuesday, October 21, 2014


You will find me in the fields
With the empty of your fresh harvests,
Noosed shells swaying in the breeze.
These vibrant lives are now hollow vessels
Echoing the sound of your voice back to you.
Your love has sucked dry the fruit and left the rind.

And I am left to question how many other hands did you bring in to sow the seeds
Was I twelve or maybe thirteen?
Do I have a story or a history anymore
Was it all left in genocide and rewritten
Did I loose the lineage and the noble heritage on the alter
In my omission was assistance
In my passiveness, permission
My pale hands, stained, clutch a voiceless throat.

Oh my brothers, who have turned your faces in anger to me,
Has the sun not taken out enough vengeance?
I have tended your fields well,
my own I have not kept.

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