by Tamara Williams
Hear the wolves call for more blood
as watchmen and shepherds turn their backs on
the sheep left vulnerable.
See the village is open
and predators run wanton.
Souls are falling. Souls are falling.
Who will stand to ward off these beasts
who crave more blood from earth and souls?
Who will stand watch for the sake of the nations?
Souls are falling, souls are falling.
Hear the women wail for fallen sons and daughters.
Hear earth travail.
These cries are familiar,
These wails were made by old mothers from another land, another time.
These cries should have ended
but souls keep falling, souls keep falling.
Pain perpetuated because the masses loved their gods and hated their kindred.
God must be raging.
The people loved their banners of hate,
gave ode to their idols of false superiority.
Mercenaries in white sheets and white hoods
burning ‘hoods and crosses,
making music of terror
Diligent in crusades of fear
Then the oppressed rose and fought back
because souls kept falling, souls kept falling.
When the oppressed kneeled for a righteous cause,
Stood, raised hands, fists clenched, tears flowing, hearts broken
for some semblance of equality, the enablers of hate scuffed.
Their barges of falsehood are sinking
And the people like trees are rooted in resilience
while a new wind stirs the waters.
May the lands be purged by rivers of revival,
May earth breathe
And the wolves retreat.
May souls stop falling, souls stop falling.
Like souls misconceived, we abide in our states of false consciousness.
States built in the name of freedom, floating in blood,
Pivoting on pedestals of crime,
Bondage, a platform of newfound liberty.
And we were taught that the land is sweet,
Unaware of the pungent past, the stakes of breeding ‘civilizations’ and nationhood.
We frolic on centuries of massacres in our quest for riches,
Not considering the hands that bled for our entitlements.
Rubies and diamonds snatched from the loins of Mother Earth
And her people became collateral damage in the savaged process.
Yet behind the music of our masquerade and muses, the cries of our ancestors are faint
Because our ears are not attuned.
In consumption mode, we gorge on sweets harvested in gall.
Our miseducation endorsed by the masked.
These are our norms. These are our new forms.
But somewhere beneath the ground, truth shoots its way up gradually.
Some are beginning to understand this state
Where we still pay a tall price for a life given to us,
For a life we salvaged after perpetual conquests.
The strong are unearthing truth.
The strong are tearing the veils
And prying open scrolls of knowledge.
Solomon’s seed is rising.