Jed Wolf

In the shadow of cathedral bells, they force-fed us their stories— conquistadors’ gods wrapped in gold, reservation saints bound in barbed wire. We stumbled through their maze of white-washed history, nearly committed for asking why.

They might have listened when we offered our empty pockets, our full hearts beating like drums in the streets. Instead, they chose iron-gripped men who patrol in armored trucks, whose badges gleam with borrowed authority.

Call us mad—we’ve heard it before while bulldozers carved their truth into sacred ground. But power, like water, finds its level: we rise like oceans warming, unstoppable as evolution, wild as seeds breaking concrete, changed as a climate there’s no stopping.