Is there anything so sadly farcical
As The Treaty
Crafted of stone tablets
Papyrus, parchment and paper
Chiseled, painted, signed and delivered
Blood inscribed duplicitous documents
Futile forgeries of ignoble intent
If they could be stacked
One, on top of another, then another, then another
Until they reached the stratosphere
Where the echo of mens' lies
Only drift on solar winds
And we, you and I
Could be magically transported to the top
There, we could fill our lungs
Not with the rank air of man’s deceit
But with the dark matter… of truth
Thank you, DaveW, it is an honor to be invited to read such a poem. It spoke to me. As I read it I felt your sorrow, and mine as well, that such people had to die, so that the white man could live in his ignorance. I understand your anguish, I feel it too, and yet I know that the white man has an equally divine heart, and eternity in which to find it. Though we can't bring their way of life back, as you said, we can make sure that the real story of the red man is told. That is how we can honor him.
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