She woke one day to the realization 

that everything had been stolen for her 

from other people.

This worried her greatly. 

“It’s just the way of it,” said her parents. 

“Someone stole from us, 

we stole all of this, 

and it will be stolen again in the future.”

"I don't believe it," she said.

“Oh yes,” said her many elders.  

“We were enslaved, 

we enslaved others, 

and someday we shall be slaves again.”

They spoke with the conviction of history and sorrow, 

but in her body she heard something else:

She heard singing in a language she struggled to understand.

She woke one day to the realization 

that she had always heard the song

It told her that the air pouring into her 

and flowing out from her 

had been in the hearts and minds of another people; 

a people who sang with this very air in their lungs.

She heard that the food she ate had grown in an earth 

holding the sacred remains of another people, 

and they were still singing.

“It is all sacred,” said the song.

“We are related to all things,” said the song.

She woke again, and made haste to leave so much behind

—so much of it unnecessary

           —so much of it drowning out the song.

She hastened to let go—

                                 To cleanse—

                                      To quiet—

To stand with both feet

on the sacred, singing soil,

Adding her own breath to the song.