Time to Ride the Loa

The old oaks are drowning
bodies are floating,
the water is poisoned,
it's the blood in our veins.
Children lost and abandoned,
madness is spreading,
rivers of sickness,
streets flooded with pain.
Families severed,
lives washed to the ocean,
the loa is calling,
the gris gris is broken.
The saints have all left us,
Jeanne could not protect us,
grief falls down upon us
like more heavy black rain.
Our Fathers up on the Hill
stay safe and blindfolded,
their houses are whole,
their hands are still clean.
They cast empty promises,
they make helpful gestures,
they touch down on the "safe" streets
and suffer no stain.
They come empty-handed,
they wave, disconnected,
they're guarded from reality,
protected and sane.
These poor people have never
had anything to give them,
and now their sad lives mean even less.
If they live they're a burden,
if they die, it's a cleansing,
and the wheels of the Nation grind on.
So gather the gris gris
and call on the loa,
turn your palm to your neighbor
and your fist to the sky,
catch a black rooster,
blood-paint the Samedi,
build a fire in your heart
and be ready to fly.
Curse the House and the Father
so he knows that his children
are the mad and the dying,
the black and the white.
His family is weeping,
his house is demolished,
he will know desperation
he will scream, he will cry.
He will know thirst,
he will pray for salvation,
dream of arms reaching,
and wait in the night.
Always pray for the Light
and have hope for tomorrow,
but remember the darkness,
and the way the soul burns.
For the pain of being ridden
by the blackest of loas
is worth it to the strong
if the curse takes its hold
and awareness awakens
and the Father learns.

-sll