Birthright Trauma

For generations a child is born,
Submerged in freezing waters, embraced by a mother 
Though is a daughter but without a mother.
Stricken with chains, and baggage like river boulders.

For generations a child is born,
Upon a family wounded by colonization,
Focused on separation, as the hide torn from moose flesh.
Feeding off the fury of lost traditions, granted to us by our ancestors.

For generations a child is born,
Riddled with buzzing of agony, from dreams long faded into TV static– 
As your mother sleeps, burning cigarette in hand, muttering on the sofa.
But oh forgive your mother without a mother, for she was never taught how to heal.

For generations a child is born,
With their heirloom of suffrage, and a disconnection to our culture. 
But oh forgive the child for slow walking,
As the weight of lost chances rest on their shoulders.
While in our hands lies the choice, to differ from our mothers–
And their river boulders.

For generations after us children will be born,
Ridden of our birthright trauma,
And gifted with the chance to soar.