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Judy Small

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Judy Small

The Futures Exchange

It rises in the sunlight
silver dome upon the sand
Encircled by the wire like
a bright upon the land
And the people of the dreaming
whose sacred land it is
Wonder who this Uncle Sam
could be to think it could be his.

For the silver that men have paid
Who think they own the land
It is the silver of escariot
the silver of the damned
it is part of the accounting
in which we all must pay
Trading in our childen's futures
For those promises today.

For the land belongs to dreaming
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And t he people are it's own
who have lived there fifty thousand years
The desert is their home
And the woman go a weeping
And a wailing for its loss
And we join in their grieving
And the counting of the cost

And the nine from which the prison
Comes sits cold beneath the stars
The landscape it has ravaged
Will forever bear the scars
Robby, Ranger, Jabuka will be words
to conjure a shame
For the spark they help to kindle
will ignite the devil's flame