Written on July 4, 2019
We are a diaspora of ourselves,
America. Dreams drowning, in stagnation.
Trust bursting in thin air, by the dawn’s early light.
Aspirations gallantly waving, in shock.
We are the unmindful, to our creed:
To hold these truths self-evident.
Red-white-and-blue flares everywhere.
While rainbows somewhere coexist.
We are the immigrants of our time.
We are the immigrants along the way.
We are the blood, and sweat, and fears,
rebuilding chords of the free and the brave.
Once upon this land we shone proudly bright.
Like kindness, generosity, and a dream.
Like hallowed words to swear upon.
Like spacious skies and brotherhood.
We are the immigrants of our time.
We are the immigrants along the way.
Inheritors of Wounded Knee
on a genocide of promises.
On amber waves of grain, from sea
to shining sea. On pilgrims’ feet,
were saved by native innocence.
To worship our prosperity.
We are a diaspora of ourselves,
America. Where has the trust gone?
New immigrants, come, take our hands.
Together let us climb the red hills.
The weight of life is the work of a nation.
The truth of life is its foundation.
This land is your land. This land is my land.
This land is marked by you and me.