Big Mountain

By Phil Goldvarg


The invader, the conquistador,
  changes face and form,
but remains the same beast,
  swallower of land, the old ways,
         the seven generations,
their heartless eyes hide behind government
   and the Peabody Coal Company,
the strip sacred skin
   of mother earth
and laugh at the raw pain they leave
   among the broken bones of the Dineh,
pushing them into exile,
   far from the home of their breath,
the drum sings a sadness, an alert,
   signal to resist this multifaced thief,
who is hungry for more food
   than it could possibly eat,
more land than it could ever need,
   more water than it could drink,
they grasp so tight,
   their blood stops flowing,
they don't know tears, laughter
   or the smell of a wet child in their arms,
they strip Black Mesa to light up the cities
   of blind roundeyes.

they would eat Big Mountain in their lust,
   chewing blood and earth without shame.

the dancers move like wings,
  singers are the wind of hope,
        they are the warriors of resistance,
guarding the earth,
   elders and children,
        the future and past of their dreams,
sweat lodge is burning with power,
   ancestor voices are smoke breath,
the circle is tight, unbroken,
   stronger than greed and genocide,
the Dineh are speaking,
   they will not be relocated,
        no forced march to the end of the world.