I am an American

 

But of what tribe are you?

 

I am of no tribe

 

But of many

 

Who are you?

 

I am the scribe for the keeper of the gate

 

A voice from the void declares perhaps this mortal is different

 

Scribe he is from the land that once was a promise

 

Where men were to govern themselves

 

They would respect and revere the law

 

Where the least could find sanctuary in the many rooms of my house

 

But as a people they lost their way

 

Truth mattered not

 

Yes they gave their treasure, but not of themselves

 

He indeed is different

 

His hair is black and course

 

His eyes are blue

 

His skin has all the colors of man

 

His tunic bears the symbols of the prophets, sages, mystics and all that kept your word

 

American, what is your name?

 

I am called by many names

 

Igor, Jose, Tsao, Roosevelt and Smith

 

But those are just a few

 

Then from the four corners upon a torrent of wind

 

A chorus of voices

 

Yes we will continue to give our treasure

 

To feed, to clothe

 

Those who are sick, wretched, naked and hungry

 

But we shall also give the blood of our sons and daughters

 

As we go to the vineyards where the grapes of wrath are stored

 

No longer will it be someone else’s job or not in my interest

 

For all shall know the simplicity and beauty of the six senses

 

The truths of being able to

 

To touch, to taste, to see, to hear, to speak, to understand

 

All plain and unvarnished and all shall understand

 

Then, these too shall march along side the others

 

To at long last bring peace to a troubled world

 

From the frothy clouds overhead, a light appeared

 

And covered the land.