As human love peels off the dying tree,
thy vicious greed hadst filled the empty hole.
Thou free a cousin’s life e’er to save thee,
yet peace and war together make a whole.

Cold axe and blade cut down my mighty art,
and shovel digs to satisfy the soul.
The bullets pierce the freedom’s forceful guards,
and all thou find is black and filthy coal.

Thou feathers pluck until they’re dead and gone
and used to write remark of free demand.
Blood’s crying from the walls yet left alone
as a foundation of this glorious land.

O why, O indian, why did you die?
For a white man’s land, or a white man’s lie?

Michael Aboutboul

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