The Cobblestone of Boston

I try to write something happy

nothing happy seems to come

even walking with the rebels

I have given up my guns

On the streets of revolution

I see plaques of lives now thrown

to the fleshpots of our liberty

a part of me is torn.

1680

In the pueblo revolt of 1680
the Indians became brutal
drug a monk with his own burro through the streets,
until he died and his brother leaped from the Mesa
They killed many innocents
and broke many sacred things
and danced like savages
through the flames

In the pueblo revolt of 1680
the tribes united to throw off a yolk
A crown that took children away for the mines
Replaced by church bells that still ring
Chapels built on broken backs...yet still sacred
guided by a knotted rope
carried with speed on the feet of youth
Hundreds of miles
Dancing the old dances
free from the savages
through the flames.