wealthy vampires
|
with the cold hands of executioners
|
execute
|
executive decisions
|
determined to destroy
|
what 1 million women, children, and men
|
1910
|
died, drowning in the rage of battle.
|
mothers, half naked
|
infants clutching thier necks
|
running frantically
|
tripping over the bodies of their sons
|
teeth gnashing
|
swinging machete
|
spitting blood and mud, and screaming:
|
land, and liberty!
|
were erased.
|
buried and burned
|
along with the memory of the dead
|
along with the ejido.
|
with the smooth stroke of a pen
|
and with the ghost of Nixon present in their eyes
|
they smiled.
|
and pronounced the omnipitence
|
of the free market
|
the profits of profit
|
extending the scurge of columbus and pizarro
|
the freedom to buy things you can never afford
|
the freedom for indians to buy corn that once flourished overgrown in their backyards
|
the freedom to die of curable disease
|
the freedom to watch their children's stomachs swell and burst
|
the freedom to starve and die
|
without land
|
or liberty
|
but Ramona, with eyes of obsidian
|
peering through her blood and sweat drenched mask
|
darding, unseen
|
changing direction with the swiftness of a bird
|
through the shanty's of the canyon
|
with every coyote, every insect, every phylum of life
|
urging her, propelling her forward.
|
the leaves and branches of the forest
|
part for miles, clearing her path
|
the voices and screams of the dead beneathe her feet
|
echo in the deepest chasm of her soul
|
hurling her, toward the city
|
history surging through her veins
|
pulsing through her fingers
|
hurling her, towards the city
|
she caresses her trigger
|
and the words of magome fulfil her being
|
and with each shot she fires, she affirms her movement
|
saying:
|
enough! enough!
|
no!
|
I will see my own blood flow
|
before you take my land...or my liberty
|
|
-----------------
|
Memory of the Dead
|
Rage Against The Machine |