(On Cultural Erosion & the Loss of Indigenous Identity)
They whispered myths of golden days,
Of kings and queens in ancient praise.
Yet taught me not to know their tongue,
Their stories lost, their songs unsung.
A name once carved in sacred stone,
Now echoes mute, now stands alone.
A past rewritten, torn apart,
A nation bled from books and art.
The elders speak, their voices thin,
Yet none will carve their words within.
For history bends to hands that write,
And truth is drowned in paper’s white.
Yet still the soil recalls their feet,
Each root still hums a buried beat.
And though they silence what we know,
The past still breathes in what we sow.
One day the scripts will crack and burn,
The stolen tales will twist and turn.
For culture buried, long ignored,
Will rise once more—restored, adored.
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