Words by Christian Mott

They came to you from far,
Black Warrior,
approached your land from wide.
Your kingdom, you swore, would save them—
they would have a place of rest.
They brought their families, their blood,
and put their hope in your Mounds.
Your city was cultivated at last,
purified with the blood
of a thousand.

 

They worshipped you for generations,
Black Warrior,
and worked your land for ages.
Your kingdom, you swore, would save them—
they would have a place to live.
They broke their backs, their sweat,
and put their faith in your Mounds.
Your city was built at last,
fertilized with the sweat
of a thousand.

 

They gave to you their many lives,
Black Warrior,
and filled your land with bones.
Your kingdom, you swore, would save them—
they would have a place to die.
They buried their children, their tears,
and put their trust in your Mounds.
Your city was dead at last,
drowned in the tears
of a thousand.