To Rita Joe Poem by Nassy Fesharaki

To Rita Joe

Stagnant wave is dead
We must move if alive!

I Follow the Natives,
Canada's…

Their poets reinvent
They rewrite…

Literature, oration
History of their life…

Feel drunk, almost lost
In trance and in love…

Can picture ancestors
On their backs just a shirt
And they are on the run…

Have vanished centuries
In my vein feel needles…

Mosquitoes', vampires'
All of them suck blood…

Our women are ignored
And our men are targets
Of arrows and insults…

My past is called: "Magi, "
And I am "The Pagan! "

We are ink for pot of
Enemy's calligraphy…

And he writes,
Has no eye, is blind…

Unable to see deep
He records and copies
Only what, he can feel…

My sisters, brothers
Let us write to revive…

Bravo Rita Joe,
You wrote well, exclaimed:
Allow "…me find my talk…"
To "…teach you about me."

Yes!
Yes!
Yes!

You and I, all of us
The coloured and deprived
With the chains on legs, arms,
Exhausted, breathless,
Must, will shout from depths!

And we shall…
And we will…

We rewrite to revive…

Who cares for English?
Hell, with the language!

Yes,
Enough is enough!

We are the capable
We convert their palace
Into large mass-grave!

This is what they did with
Our cultures, lands, being!

Let them read what we say,
Let them learn in hard way,
Let them see and observe
How we lost our cultures,
Let them feel the same pain
When thrown in grave!