Wounded Knee, you are to me
a sacred spot. A cavalry,
a Calvary, we ought not
forget the thousand screams,
the streams of blood that
flooded prairie grass.
Babi Yar, you're not so far
from Wounded Knee. I'd
have to be without eyes
or ears not to hear or see
the enormity:  the mangled
bodies, the twisted forms,
that speak, that wreck
of evil, and of seeing and
not saying no. My Lai,
our lie, women and children
dying, lying on our lies,
covering culpability, a quilt
of carnage, but where is guilt?
Cambodia, your killing fields
now flower with blood and
bones of beings fleeing tyranny,
thousands falling near you
and me as we sip our tea
and munch on sweet cakes of
propriety. El Playon, los
paisanos pobres know no
place but death. No dearth
of death squads here, no
fear of duplicity, my
country's complicity in
these atrocities--my country,
tis of thee, sweet land of
liberty--El Salvador no esta
aqui, porque, like Wounded Knee,
the savior is you and me.

Copyright 2019 Tod Howard Hawks