The sun
The cruel and deadly sun,
Poor peasant farmers
Tilling and un-productive Earth

Soil baked hard,
In the harsh mid-day sun
The trees long gone,
The jungle but a memory

Once this land was fertile,
Out now that's hard to tell,
Only in the Elder's tales
is food ever aplenty.

The younger of this tribe,
remember not a day,
When hunger was not paramount
and disease was not rife.

Spaniards and Brazilians,
Came with deadly guns,
To rob the tribes of land,
To rob the land of trees.

They saw nothing but trees,
Trees in the way of land to farm
They saw no cultures,
Just primitives to be moved.

These peaceful peoples
Wished not to fight
But placed their trust
In their all-powerful Gods.

Beliefs were shattered,
As the trees went up in smoke,
Missionaries were on hand
To bless them with Catholicism.

Confined to a reservation,
Denied their nomadic ways,
By some white general
In a country called 'Peru'

Chris McKenna

02/05/97 - 05/05/97

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Copyright (C) Chis McKenna 1997.