I have exhausted my mind with details
of addresses and letters of need
from those who have died recklessly
with no one to sing for them
no one to remember each scar
each delicate whorl of skin
on fingertips.
So they wander recklessly
the neighborhoods
of memory, graze at windows
lit up by tv, walk through traffic
of passengers listening to
digital singing.
I do not know how to lead them from despair
to a spring of fresh water, clean clothes
and songs to send them brightly
on their way.
Maybe I am speaking of a nation
who does not know
how to mourn the dead
and is too numb or crazy to be aware
of its own dying.
I do know that when I get up again
from my restless sleep
I will begin once more this song against
this song of falling rain.

c Joy Harjo Honolulu, Hawaii 2003

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