The year of indigenous people, nineteen ninety-three,
Still we are struggling to be free.
Government money for our reservations getting lost in the political confusion,
Telling us we're receiving it through their mixed-up delusions.
Justice has not yet been served for 500 years.
Our ancestors have been hurt for too long, we can't just wipe away the tears.
The next generation relatives are more in tune to the truth,
About society's lies of death, murder and sacrificial blues.
Go on telling us, make-up more lies.
We will continue praying through our painful cries.

1993

Jason Summers

http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/1993-2/