A little something in the works for my ancestors.
|It wasn't called murder but a forced choice|
was believed to be the same.
Pushed out and made an outsider.
to a community that was theirs.
Treated like animals with no option but to migrate.
Many cried tears of pain and death.
Bodies littered the road from east to west.
Blood ran like rivers throughout the timeless journey.
My ancestors worked hard for what they believed
and lost many trying to maintain it.
Some have forgotten what they went through, but a
true harborer of cherokee blood would never forget to remember.