by Chaya Ember Nadi
Sorrow lifted the Eagle’s Wings,
As the White Man’s Salvation was offered;
Offered without sugar, sold to our parents as “healing”,
But the tincture would only make us weaker.
Grandmother Moon cried out in warning,
But the Night was too dark to hear.
The White Man’s medicine burned our tongues…
Landing like hot acid; burning holes.
Holes that soon got too big to hold our words,
And all of our Language fell out at our feet.
Grandmother Moon cried out in mourning,
But the Night was too dark to hear.
The White Man had to pack the open wounds with something,
So he chose his words, his customs.
He stuffed our cheeks with gauze that held his God.
He told his stories, over and over, until we believed they were ours.
Grandmother Moon cried out in our Native tongue,
But the Night was too dark to hear.
He took us to his promised land,
Land that was already ours, land that was sacred,
Land that held the left behind bones of our Ancestors;
These Spirits walked through our dreams every night.
Grandmother Moon cried out in remembrance,
But the Night was too dark to hear.
© 2023 Chaya Ember Nadi All rights reserved.
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