Have you ever empathized with
a Cherokee
or a Mexican
or a worn out Jew
or a small Afgan kid
far away from his home and kin
away from his Known place
away from the ancient forms
without the means to celebrate
in the true way
by the old song
in the distant tounge
without the weird, worn garb
of the fallen ancestors?
what do they do?
they suit up
they ride out
and they meet it, and
they contain it, there,
placing it close to their
breast and deep underneath,
finding the small patch of land
presesntly shared.
and they claim it
and they hold it
and they keep it
and they guard it
and they protect it
because that’s what Love does
and its then that they’re One
now something strangely new,
and impossible to fully exist
if ever apart, if ever not fully
Together.
We sing: Happy Charadadonika to all,
and glad tidings from our King across the sea
