An arid gust of wind sweeps through the parched landscape The cracks in the colossal rock that turns around the sun Which beams its might upon the amber rocks of the desert Mesas grasping at the sky of sapphire Green serpents jut out from the crimson sand Their flesh shielded by an array of needles Airborne gliders of bronze feathers and golden talons Spirals decorated with scales holding daggerlike fangs No man ever ludicrous enough to lay his foot upon the scorched earth But what they call the savage The subhuman They do not seem to care They stay in this hellscape and call it Diné Bikéyah They feast They farm They preserve tradition with dignity No corrupt nation would ever attempt to crush this enduring community But what they call the white man The conqueror They do not seem to care They claim this region and call it Utah They build They innovate They spread across this continent like wildfire And no sadistic being dares to defy their reign But what they call the canyon Canyonlands by Brady Goldberg ’31 57
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