the stench... rising,
from your halls of justice,
from your plate glass
Wall Street windows,
from the steps of your churches,
from your brick home suburbs...
is the dried, crusted blood
of your Native American
brothers and sisters...
rising from their reservation
kerosene huts written in poverty,
culture raped whiskey tainted
white god judgements...
rising... till it fills
your nostrils, gags your mouth,
and breaks the shroud of your freedom
with the ghosts of what has been...
redemption demands justice!
the pale horse has come!
A lot of the time justice comes many years later, some times not at all, a great poem.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
A great poem! There can't be justice while others languish in poverty! There's all sorts of arguments and counter arguments about the need to maintain world peace for the benefit of the few thieving rogues!