The Truth Beneath the Feast

Ancestors, whose whispers ride the winds,
Lend me your voice to tell what was,
The crimson stains beneath the autumn gold,
The shadows cast upon the land of old.
Let truth rise from earth’s quiet breath,
And echo the songs once drowned in death.

Before the iron ships broke the waves,
And strangers came with hunger deep,
The rivers sang in tongues of life,
The forests held of secrets to keep.
A circle unbroken, the people danced,
Each heartbeat tied to earth and star,
Their thanks eternal, not once a year,
For life’s abundance near and far.

Mountains cradled their whispered prayers,
While fields of corn stretched to the sky.
Each sunrise was a sacred gift,
Each twilight a lullaby.

From the east came sails like teeth,
Gnashing winds and spears of fire,
They met the open hand with lies,
And took, as takers oft conspire.
The Wampanoag, with hearts of grace,
Shared their bounty, their toil, their lore,
But to the settlers, the land itself
Was a prize they hungered for.

When dawn broke over Mystic’s shore,
The cries of women split the sky,
The flames devoured homes and dreams,
And songs of mourning rose on high.
Warriors fell, their voices stilled,
Yet still the land bore silent witness.
While in the halls of victors bold,
A feast was raised for “God’s forgiveness.”

Proclaimed a day of thanks and prayer,
For battles won and blood well-spilled,
A harvest hymn for those who slew,
While fields of grief lay freshly tilled.

But history’s quill dipped not in truth,
It wove a tale to soothe the guilt,
Of corn and turkey shared as one,
While the graves of nations slowly wilt.
The harvest hymn became their shield,
To mask the ash beneath their feet,
A festival of thanks declared,
While countless dead slept in its defeat.

They told of Pilgrims and friendly tribes,
Of shared meals and blessings bestowed,
But left in shadows the silent screams,
And the weight of blood that soaked the road.

Yet fires smolder in the heart,
The elders teach, the children know,
That from the ashes life shall rise,
And truth, like rivers, freely flow.
No feast can cleanse the soil of blood,
No hymn erase the hunter’s tread,
But voices rise against the tide,
To speak for all, the silent dead.

They hold the stories, fierce and clear,
Of stolen lands and spirits strong.
Their chants defy the march of time,
Their truth resounds in sacred song.

So pause before the gilded feast,
And hear the echoes of the past,
The thanks you give, remember well,
The cost at which the shadows cast.
For gratitude comes at great cost,
It lies in truth and justice shown,
To honor those whose lives were lost,
And seeds of healing humbly sown.

May this day not stand for pilgrim's pride,
But for the voices long denied.
For in their strength and struggle we see,
A path toward shared humanity.