On the last ride
At the end of the trail
On those uprooted
Murdered
Stripped of identity
An image a white man made
Which earned white man’s awards
In a museum of white man ways
A monument to a way that was
(Like a brave on a baseball jersey
Or a redskin on a helmet
That is, a caricature)
Yes, a way now lost
And was never understood
By any
But those who lived it
Still, a way so regrettably lost
But what could have been done?
We taught our children
That their land was needed
Their culture inferior
Their rights abridge-able
Because they are red
And we are white
They are savage
And we are civilized
They are backward
And we are forward
And so we teach them
Even still
In so many ways
Systematic
And unconscious
While out loud we say
How regrettable it all was
How unfortunate
It was wrong
Mistakes were made
But we do not say,
“Like Stalin’s mistakes”
“Like Mao’s mistakes”
Because these were our mistakes
And we do not see the darkness
In our light of day
In our light, we say of another holocaust
Never again!
While in our darkness this holocaust
Continues, unabated
For we, the privileged
The conquerors
The destroyers
The sky turns round
The sun rises and falls
Days come and go
We teach our children
A fairy tale past
In a fairy tale museum
So they can live their fairy tale lives
For the disenfranchised
For the dispossessed
For them
It remains dark
It remains night
The long night
Of the last ride
At the end of the never-ending trail
Of darkness
Oklahoma City
Oklahoma, United States of America
Taken during travels, 1997
My first response was posted this morning: Being of the Night.