I dreamt a dream,
So horrible and cruel,
That my screams echoed through the house,
The sight of the the men in dark cloaks,
Struck fear into my soul,
Though I did not know why,
Until I seen the woman,
Her body bruised and mangled,
Her deep green eyes filled with tears of agony and dispair,
Her hair, which had once been long and silky,
Now was rudely chopped and tangled,
One of the men in cloaks began to speak,
And as he spoke another man poked te woman with something sharp,
I heard her screams,
I saw her blood,
Then I saw the brutal man, tie the woman up,
I did not understand why,
It seemed so wrong,
The crowd in which was gathered,
Stared in a uneasy, fearful silence,
The only sound being that of which the men in cloaks made,
When they lite the fire beneath her feet,
I heard myself crying out, telling them to stop,
I felt someone grab my arms,
My screams echoed hers as the flames licked her flesh,
They tried to drag me away,
As I struggled, I watched her die,
Burnt alive,
The crowd disappeared,
Staring at me with knowing eyes,
I suddenly knew,
The next woman to be burned,
Was myself.
I came to find again the fresh fountain
With footprints of Conquistadores framed
In mud: residue of a brick mountain
From behind which white anger once had flamed.
The missing fort was not all time displaced
But cougars dying without an escape
From your history. Wrapped in me and disgraced
I saw the Caribbean full landscape
Wilting in the salt of mossy lakes. I
Saw men like cougars unwilling to die.
I found the seasons changed into bright cold
And the evening sun the only sure gold
Above slithering gangrene of jagged sea
I found birds strumming on the fret of glee
But nowhere could I find the thing I sought
Beyond the migrant men in a dream caught.
Symbolic of the hypocrites custodial conceit.
All pretense of perfection
Can provide but brief protection
From the madness at the margins of the mind.
And to the soldier's on the field
The liars soon will be revealed
As weapons turn to lock and load in kind.
The promise was perverted
By the pompous and the proud.
While men of honored greatness
With their genius speaking loud,
Are pushed aside by brokers
Who collect the lesser crowd.
They break and batter dreams
And turn the hopes of men to dust.
With all the wrecking balls beleaguered
They have raped the promised trust
And torn our sacred temples down
For minor profits in the ground.
The genius of these immigrants
In death how proud they stand,
Their contributions prominent
On this, their chosen land.
The people once paraded with a passion and a pride,
To serenade with songs they love the sacredness of soul;
The past should be protected by the present to provide
A living link to history that unifies the whole.
I hear their vital voices still
Reverberate as one
As out of sacred shelters spill
Their sacred songs once sung.
Memory or dream from hell I cannot tell
The vision of stygian forests where harpies dwell
And men from them among men spawned
Greedy gullibles that on pagan mysteries fawned
Evicted from stygian caves to wander bared
Of human comport and yet in human shape
By cultures of war in Cerebus’ loath prepared
These monsters of men defy, steal, kill, rape
The African land still, and virgin virtue defiled
In all her children stolen, manacled, despised
Toss upon dread waves like dead meat, disguised
From pity of sharks, innocence, kindness biled
By the same fiends frantic at the Judean cross
And this colonial evil is unsurpassed in dross.
They should have known such deeds are wrong
If they had known we are people too, and he
The Eternal light, the bringer of the griot's song
How they murdered him in grim glee of prophecy:
When each of us are enslaved or kill, he dies
Again in that wickedness entrenched in vanities.
Six guns blaring, outlaws glaring, as they ride into town
A band of men, tired and weary and just all worn down
There they are sitting high, as if they could reach the sky
They come from afar, to stop a band of thieves
Outlaws so bad, everyone is sad, for they have killed
More than a few innocent women and children that came into their view.
Those who were there, those who did care, tell what happened that day.
The band of men, though weary and down, brought every single one of them outlaws to the
ground.
These bands of men are still celebrated today, everyone has heard of these men all around.
For they are the Texas Rangers you see, courageous men, heroes most especially for me
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