The gods may find us locked within prisons of shame, our priest hauled away. Prayer beads pass his hands, trace the unbroken circle Life is suffering. Our roots are unearthed by hands unseen, wrenched up with clumps of dirt dangling. Prayer is set loose. Offerings fill the passing winds from temples within.
Dreamers dream beyond clack of train wheels through far lands.
Stillness in motion. Such an innocent, harmless-sounding word. Dorothea Lange's photographs tell a different story. Soldiers with bayonets stand guard over families. Children and elders are tagged like merchandise.