The Voices Die When I'M At The River Poem by Angelica Duardo

The voices die every time I’m at the river
Before, they spoke
Of how the sun tanned their skin,
Here by the river

They laughed,
They chanted,
They wore their names so proudly

And marching down one day came upon them misery
Took away their fairy times, all their prosperity

Even their life, precious possession
Was nothing but a game, had no appreciation

They were taken away, they were kept inside
And iron wires marked their sights
Far beyond but close to them
They saw the forest that’ll lead them home

Their voices speak and tell their names
So far I’ve counted some millions ones
Some keep on crying these hateful times
Some wisely speak
And tell the story of who they use to be

The voices die when I’m at the river
I’m not sure why, but they say it keeps the calm
And they flow away down the river
And they sing along some old strange rhythm

But they all come back
We must not forget
They suffered because our ignorant ways
And it can all happen again