Tribal Blues
Young the tribe with
all the caring of the wild,
consume the weak,
dance to the beat
of bone sticks on
drums of skin
asked,
“will you let a blue boy in”?
He enters
wheeled in, in his cage
built of love by caring hands
and mourning eyes
seeing beyond panting breath
through purple lips,
they squint at death
which this tribe knows
in tiny form
they slay in games,
"sans" empathy
and weak defame.
Envious of wasted care
on one who is not of the tribe,
the hunted not the hunter he,
no warrior to play beside.
He stares ahead to some far place
where the sun’s warm
on straight smooth limbs
where he is prince of
strength, and loved
so there’s no fear
of tribal spears.
Soon he must go,
short winter day,
leaving a star
to light a way
away from dance
with bone on skin
to let the beat
of conscience in.
.
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