an old writer and his words

We hunted him as a stagacross his fields, trophywe called him red man,color of Ares, godssacrificed on our altar,his rivers run with his spirit.I am whitebereft of color,barren, a glarea desert stripped of life.It is I who wearCain’s mark, pluckedfrom the gardenthe sweet taste fadesmy lips are dry.You are blackan amalgam, greenof the grasses in…