Amajine

How easily do we define,

Another’s world by where we stand,

Obscured and twisted,

Through the lens,

Of prejudice,

And lack of thought.

We choose,

Not to see the vast,

Oceanic history laying here,

But rather to condense,

Constrict a people

Into a soundbite,

For want of scant respect.

Pounding millennia into dust,

Sieving and sifting,

For some trinket bright,

Held aloft for imbeciles,

To represent another’s history,

By men who lie,

And treaties break.

We take the costumes colors,

Bleaching them in the fake sunlight,

Of our supposed intellect,

Or cherry pick,

The facts,

Which prove our point,

Pressing lives,

Like flowers,

Into books,

That lock,

A living, breathing people,

Denying them,

The growth we claim,

To be the mark,

Of civilized man.

The breath of storytellers,

Heart of drums,

We steal to prove,

How savage were their lives,

Degraded their beliefs,

Which we have tamed,

Beasts not men,

That once cluttered,

This now groomed land.

We bled their children,

Tore into lives,

Locked up and cut the hair,

Teach selfhate as if it were,

The best of us,

The only way,

To make a man,

Out of a slave.

All to salve conscience,

Because through choice,

We reach a point,

Where deaths become fiction,

Aggression rightful claim,

History rewritten,

Our ancestors absolved,

Washed clean once more,

In the blood,

Of another’s child.

And yet.

And yet there,

Still is hope.

The blood, the bones,

The sacrifice and history,

Of men and women,

Children lost,

That built this land,

Their lives and names,

Are still remembered,

By the few,

And breathe as if alive.

So let me be,

A spark to help,

To light the fire;

A step within,

The circle dance,

And let me hear

The drumbeat,

Resounding out,

Through the land,

Through woods,

Across the plains,

Over mountain pass,

And city street,

Calling out,

To the peoples,

Long denied.

Peoples who walk,

In quiet dignity,

And forge their future,

Build anew,

So that their story,

Might be heard again,

Proudly and respected,

And in the dancers steps,

Finally, finally may,

The truth be told,

So all may live,

In true equality.

Scroll-Hoffman-1885

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