(written after reading, Killers of the Flower Moon
by David Grann)
When the word Native becomes a rude slang
And we die from a guilty white unnamed
Forever our tribe carries this blood stain
Cause the murderers of us go unblamed.
The Devil turned our happy songs to death,
Some thought Him a modern friendly Job,
In truth His feast was the soul and the breath
Of riches in our blessed Osage Hills robe.
Nature's Earth oil became our own black Hell,
Her cup runneth over the best of us.
They're scalping our souls, Oh please can't you tell
Our blood cries out, come, help us dear Jesus!
Stop these spirit killers least we be bound
Mute in a reservation underground!
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.I would like to translate this poem
A poignant and well articuated piece of poetry nicely embellished with poetic rhyme and rhythm.