We have forgotten.
Forgotten the soil we walk on
This newly sewn fabric in the wind
Coarse and weightless
A copy of its origin the same
This land a remote reflection
The struggles and lights
The smoke and the shouts
The wails of joy and the gasps of loss
All the same

Passion held the wheel with bronze fingers
So much fire aglow deep within the chests
A fight for words
A fight for hopes
The crumbling brown earth
It mixes becomes something entirely new
The image fought for
No mirror to bind us cross the seas
Neither porcelain customs nor predetermined states

Passion, who moved eyes to tears and set ablaze the soul
Whose voice moved from ears to tongues
Established a vision in the minds of men
A painting of colors and words with land and letters the same
Everything from this word
Everyone in this word
Out of many
One

It is so easy
To attribute our image today to
Words we never fought for

This land is a play
Acted so convincingly

The script rewritten
Our voices now acceptance
Our words now pain
Even the actors have forgotten
What lies beneath the theater
Histories this stage was built on

That same sky blocked by the ceiling
The clouds long since blown away
Still we act out our parts and step left
Persuading the audience and ourselves
Until the very last line is spoken

The curtain will tumble from the rafters
Met with no applause
Out of many
“One.”