We were born native, not american.
Land is everyone’s mother, truthful sedation.
You hate my skin, yet you tan to blend in.
Is there no end, to misrepresentation?
There is no royalty for spilling blood between mountain, soiling sea.
Our children still cry; even though they aren’t alive.
Another dawn and the muerto crown,
thick as napalm, shines down.
We live on the corner of soledad with heads held high.
Who brought the demon?
The midnight shadow with a shadow.
Seraphina calls on her Gems,
while they feed on the drought of heart,
in legion.
Tug of love far worse than war,
inside, this pride,
is worth living for.
There isn’t much we fear,
when you’ve faced a loss so severe.
All you’ll find here, my dear,
is sword and spear.