Where is your soul?

Buried black in Native earth.

A hatchet and a poem,

For victry’s sweat you cry. 

 

You are brave.

You are kind.

You bastard of this Son

Fuck some sweet remembrance,

And passion here to die. 

 

You think in empathy.

And thinking now is done.

And memoirs and their memories

And peace on shoulders slung.

 

So shit pain on these people. 

And spit upon their rage.

And look here on these entrails,

Roman witches. watching. graves.

 

Some edifice, some thought,

And peace we call it still.

History and our babies, oh our babies.

Marble. Marble. Marble.

 

What mother and what father?

This simple, simple thought. 

Of people that we are knowing,

And hurt we hurt to heart.

 

We long for rest.

This journey keeps for nothing.

Opportunity yet to speak. 

To kill this lonesome silence,

Opportunity shall come. I think. 

 

But is it that you wonder 

To protect and here to sleep? 

Or is it that you slumber, 

Awaiting yet to hands and dirt. 

 

They reach up from this ground,

Blue and elbowed shroud.

Reaching they are fierce,

I kick them fingers and foot.

 

Quick, run on to that mountain,

The one. That secret place.

Hide there for a moment.

That face. I cannot see. I cannot hear.

I am deaf, and I am dumb. 

 

So yet we march for hours,

Red ribbon tied so tight,

And hats with dodo feathers.

Driven cold on plumes they rage. 

 

Will you pray here brother?

And hope for what you shall not see.

The pain that is required.

A pound of meat, and a gallon of sea.

 

A child lies there sleeping,

In flick and flack and crack.

What visions does he see?

Of future, of witches, and of me.