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A song of chains precedes any
of freedom.

We must state our cause, stake
our place in goal and dream

before the winds of change make
us more than we seem,

the perfect beings that for days
and weeks of life cannot

be supported—even the strongest
beams, gone are the memories

of the true line, until instead of
the flammable drink,

we humbly on paper or screens
opine!

God give us a soul, a season, a path
under foliage and civilization’s
litter on the head of first peoples and
nations we in Europe so arrogantly
bestowed.

Could it be that we escaped a way of
life over there, in our old world, only
to force that way on this American land?

I sound mad, but am only trying to report
the problems with the sound

above our homes, the helicopter hell
and siren fort—

1607 the British in armor seeking fame,
riches and glory.

We may have gotten them; but at what
cost?  And is there any going back to
make amends, to balance things,

to redeem our forefathers who often
forgot to slow down, breathe, and thank
God for our land before stealing more?

There must be, if the slave song
can make us free.

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