Your class, your caste, your country, sect, your name or your tribe.
There's people always dying trying to keep them alive.
There's bodies decomposing in containers tonight..
In an abandoned building where..
The squatters made a mural of a Mexican girl.
With fifteen cans of spray paint in a chemical swirl.
She's standing in the ashes at the end of the world.
Four Winds blowing through her hair.
The Bible's blind. The Torah's deaf. The Qu'ran is mute.
If you burned them all together you’d get close to the truth.
Still they’re pouring over Sanskrit under Ivy League moons..
While shadows lengthen in the sun.
Cast on a school and meditation built to soften the times..
And hold us at the center while the spiral unwinds.
It's knocking over fences, crossing property lines.
Four Winds cry until it comes.
Well I went back by rented Cadillac and company jet.
Like a newly orphaned refugee retracing my steps.
All the way to Cassadaga to commune with the dead.
They said, "You'd better look alive".
And now it’s off to old Dakota where a genocide sleeps..
In the Black Hills, the Badlands, the calloused East.
I buried my ballast. I made my peace..
Her Four Winds leveling the pines//