Indian Rain
I feel as if I have been buried alive For the best part of five hundred years My body encased in a mountain of waste Until one day my face reappears **** bends with the years that it spends In positions tormenting my soul But now they are free to emancipate me From the celibacy of the soul So turn in your grave Hold back the incoming rain **** wind in my face like the linen and lac Are surrounding **** like **** Fresh air in my lungs **** sharing his songs **** through the grass New blood in my veins like Red Indian rain Stripping us of all shame we possess With tears in my eyes (and with anguish) I cry: "I was free all the time, I confess!"