The Sleeping Giant Never Woke

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.