AND NOW FOR
THE
FORSAKEN
Outside the kinship of mankind and rivers there,
is another realm calling, one I can hear. Fifty
feet from sandstone, I see it rising up: red rocks
along the hillside's cut, smooth stones along
the river's floor. Delaware to Susquehanna, I've
ridden them both - the tall, dark forests
yet
beckon all along the way. Conestoga to Fairless
Hills, small spots where once old settlers rang in.
In my ending of dreams, I still see Penn's forsaken
Indians - those natives betrayed by the sons and
cousins of Europe. Given faulty maps and ridiculed.
Made to somehow doubt themselves and walk wrong
ways in forests and glens, these indigenous tribesman
stayed only to be vanquished, killed and moved away.
A sorry tale, a moon - as is said -
for the misbegotten.
-
Why do we hold to honor such means as these?
Inherit the wind? Not when it only blows of death
and danger, sabotage and betrayal. We know so
little of the damage we've wrought that this birthright
or ours, and ours alone, should be heralded to Heaven
on high as hatred, betrayal and evil itself. Extirpate
the interloper and - for now - the forsaken shall
return.
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