That’s how we match their generosity.
That’s how we thank them for their kindness.
That’s how we treat them for embracing us.
That’s how we break their spirit.
That’s how we invade their land.
That’s how we insult their dignity.
That’s what we have to offer them,
for offering us their trust.
The Trail of Tears returns,
and their river rises.
Dreams crystallize in their eyes, once again.
They defend the earth, bare handed.
They recall their ancestors,
Thunderbird and buffaloes;
and a spirit to guide them,
when the sky turns into an ice patch
on an autumn night,
not able to comfort a thousand wounds.
Smoke rises from grenades.
Pepper spray is not meant for the eyes
that haven’t slept in centuries.
Their horses cannot be turned around.
Sacred water, fired from cannons,
turns into icy feathers, on razor wires;
nature proudly wears them in its war bonnet,
and the wind ululates in the canyons.
The stars were out all night in frost,
defending the sacred.