We refused to listen, now beneath the so-called victory there lies resentment of the unheard ones, of the ones obligated to succumb.
If only they had the choice to withdraw, if a safe place was secured for them, maybe the bitterness wouldn’t creep through their blood, ready for revenge and another uproar.
If only we gave them a place they could call home, where they could live at ease and feel unthreatened, where they could withdraw.
But we didn’t let them slide into the background, from where their silent voices could be heard. Even their whispers were too much.
Instead, we became dedicated to absolute victory, total annihilation. We chopped away their roots, we took away their home, hoping they would forget, praying they wouldn’t remember.
We took away their home, but they kept on living, uncomfortably, unable to adapt, unable to blend in until the distinctive spice of their being withered and they became bland, they became shadows of what they used to be.
And shadows started lurking from the shadows, threatening us from the distance, their whispers turning into violent cries of reminiscence.
We took away homes, we cut the chords, and now we face lost souls, troubled, uneasy. With no roots, no tracks to trace back.
We hid the truth, so now the truth waits to be revealed, to bounce back, with the exact same intensity it was erased.
Spirit of Tara 