You planted the seed
that grew into the Oak
that became the hanging tree.
you stole the land and the fruits of our labors
our minds, bodies and souls
claimed our heritage as your own and remade our gods in your image.
And now, hundreds of years later
while our bone deep scars remain raw
you have the audacity to cry out against "gatekeeping"
We reclaim what was stolen
Our modern rhythms
in tune with the thrumming sound of the blood and moans of our ancestors
are not for you.
Our battle cries, hakas, and revolutionary hymns
are not for you.
We hereby turn off the spigot.
that tortured teat
from which you commoditized our existence.
Pimp out your own
we quit.
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