They can have pictures of us and bones in the dirt;
Stories with quixotic tales and tears we shed-
And whatever little is left— it's saved to decaying paper
And how time has continued further.
From slavery into the free civilized invisible chains.
One's sex and tint of skin, and a world forced flat.
And what little is left- When life's tears had been shed.
We have our little ways we built the world
Multiple decades, expanded mechanics of travel
From wagon, to motor and the internet,
And what little is left— healing without privacy
And someday hover-cars and teleportation.
Back to the future- as a learning channel
We can tell you we acted, judged,
And gave room for truth and compassion.
Showed love, but often left it in the fairy tales.
And so what little is left— maybe a thought
How many would stare back, how many would notice.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem