Who Are You

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.