The writers, the artists, those who sing–
The elders, who have lived this story before and hoped to die before it began again–
The indigenous people of the world, who still have one ear to the drums–
We are afraid.
We know this song, we know this story, we know.
We know that when we raise our voices, you will mock us, you will strike us down, you will bind our eyes with bands of blackthorn, you will pour hot oil on our lying tongues, you will break our bard’s fingers so that we might not tell the truth.
And before this nightmare is done
(this is why we sing, this is why we write, this is why we cry)
You will weep bitter tears and wish you had listened.
The prophet was right–