The yellow moon of my Cherokee ancestors' harvest
Hangs in death throes from its Native American sky;
And the blackened moon above the grand, Irish flag
Bleeds of my forefathers' histories throughout time.
While their descendents, each in turn
Brought forth years of brutal suffering
To the light of the consciousness stream,
Fighting blinding tears in eyes that finally saw their dream.
Yet, their nations built strong people and rich legacies,
Through many moons under tragic skies;
And centuries fraught with death of spirit, asking:
What God moves the cruel hands of time
That rule with injustice, hate, and pain?
Silver trophy winner
Adding your comment:
I love the painting, it's stunning. 
