There was a name for a place.
It was named how it was named
for a reason, thousands of years
of tradition, story, repetition and
heritage made that place special,
its people living, dying, circling
the earth in spirit and land—

Gratitude for the water, the food,
the abundance and song.

Then came the British white man,
who was vain and violent enough
to change the name of the place
at a glance because its inhabitants
were not Christian, bible-toting or
“advanced” enough in war (cowards)
to carry and use loud, destructive
firearms—

the kind that still kill in malls,
churches, streets and schools today.

The British white man called this
land “Virginia,” after their virgin
queen Elizabeth.

Vanity.  Violence.  Usurpation…

To first usurp the Bible and Christ
for violent land acquisition.

Then to usurp the land itself…

Wingandacoa lives and breathes;
is the place I cherish and maintain
in my heart one of abundance,
native beauty and tradition.

No Roman-influenced conquest by
a people bedeviled by war and
violent competition with other
European nations can change
the essence of a place, unless
one yields to untruth.

I do not and call the land
where John Smith landed:

Wingandacoa.