A Psalm of Home

Once gleeful hearts are now but broken palms,
of natives squeezed out of home.
A quiet dis-ease rustles,
as the salty tongue of the sea laps the shore.
Pressed against the banks of the murk-filled stream,
we weep to recall the beautiful sand and turquoise deep.
For suited men took captive what was ours,
and of us silence they did demand.
But how can we be silent in our own land;
wrenched from us by commerce's hand.
What left they we but this narrow plot
to hang our instruments out to rot.
No more do we sing.
Only the querulous rumbles of a heart that no longer can ache.
To bruises, inured, have we become.
The lashes no more make us cry.

Disclaimer: I do not claim ownership of the images in this piece.