I yearned for the stripes of saffron, green, and white
and the twenty-four spokes of the centered wheel
But when I finally descended from air
I didn't hear the strikes of wind on fabric
anywhere.
I longed for the voices of the youth to raise
and bellow, with passion, for cause or for praise
But instead I heard perfunctory chatter
of logistics, labels, and other such things
that don't matter.
I pined for the invigorating spirits
and the earth that they walked before their necks were strung
But when my feet brazed the freshness of the dirt,
the smell of rotting concern distracted me,
and the path became inert.
It truly is a shameful story
when the tears and
the sweat and
the deaths
before 1947
no one here knows
or cares to.
