Pity

I am three generations
From the Blue Ridge.

Those of my parentage
Had eyes of the hawk
And withers of the Elk Dog
People whose banner
Was the sky
And whose home
Was the earth.

Their nails were stained
With the dyes of their blankets
Their bodies hardened
By the demands of life
On the land they revered.

Most were displaced
At bayonet tip
And their Trail of Tears
Winding into Oklahoma
The dark of the moon.

It was not tragedy.
It was criminal.

Three generations is not far enough
To be numb to the insult.
It is not so distant
To be deaf to the cries
Or blind to the sorrow.

Pain rolls like a river
Widening its banks
And deepening its bed.

They took the land
And with it
The shock of what the land may exact.

I do not pity my people
For their loss.

I pity those that imagine
They took from us.