Now our old trees are a courthouse,
and so is the marble of Europe
come ship by ship,
and now these trees are also a table of judgment.
When papers are signed
someone loses,
someone wins
without regard. All rise.
The one who wins leaves
but the ones who lost
stay to beseech the judge
who stands up in robes
like a god
while a story wants to be told
by a mortal,
or help is asked
for fair justice
when it exists.
Not here, not now,
not in this courthouse
that once was our forest and rivers,
and the sounds of our birds.
The stones of this room are hard
and cold. Inside them, take my hand.
I’ve lost a grandchild to injustice
and He did not hear my story. I stood up
to tell the truth while others lied. He made me sit
and be silent or leave.
My hand is a stone.
My eyes are rivers, my words silenced,
and god has walked with my life
through a door in the wall and away.