Then They'll Come

Then they'll come, and plead with us,
"Forget, and bury this bitter trust."
But hear me now, and mark it well—
'Tis not a wound that time can quell.
For the trees and winds, they whisper clear,
The dues in blood we have to clear.
'Tis not a grief that we can hide,
For not the oceans, deep and wide,
Could wash away the sorrow we bear,
This burden beyond all compare.

Then they'll come, and bid us peace,
"Forgive, and let the rancor cease."
But listen close, and understand—
Is there one among us with the strength to stand?
To shake the hand, with blood still stained,
Of those who caused our people pain?
Would the dead, whose cries still ring,
Approve such acts, or curse the sting?
So, could we forgive and turn the page,
Or rise with wrath, and fuel our rage?