Anthem of the Unchosen: Turn I (Remastered)

[Prologue – Whispered Truths]
They edited the scriptures—
not gently,
not with reverence.
They sliced out the names,
stapled in their own,
and called it holy.

Said one people were chosen,
the rest—margin notes,
deleted scenes.

But we were in Genesis too.
Buried beneath redactions.
Beneath blood.
Beneath Latin.

If Christ came back,
you’d call Him a traitor.

[Intro – Breath and Fire]
They said we were lucky.
He pōmaikaʻi mākou, they claimed.
Lucky to kneel
on the bones of our grandmothers
and call it church.
Lucky to trade our chants for chains,
our drums for doctrines.

But luck don’t drop bombs on Vieques.
And liberty doesn’t knock wearing combat boots.

Despierta, Borinquen.
Wake up.
This ain’t freedom.
It’s branding.

[Verse 1 – The Theft of Hawai‘i]
They called it a handshake.
A deal.
An annexation.
But it tasted like sugar.
Like rust.
Like empire behind a smile.

Queen Liliʻuokalani lowered her crown
to save her people.
They took the crown
and laughed anyway.

The life of the land is preserved in righteousness.
So they paved the land,
and sold the rights from us.

They ripped up kalo,
planted golf courses.
Turned hula into hotel lobby acts.
Chants into slogans.

ʻAʻole mākou e hōʻole i ko mākou kūpuna.
We do not deny our ancestors.

You did that for us.

[Verse 2 – Puerto Rico: The Promise That Wasn’t]
They said we were free.
But free doesn’t come with blackout seasons
and ballot boxes collecting dust.
We bled in your wars.
And came home to silence.
To second-class citizenship
with no second chances.

Coño, even the hurricanes
knew it was a setup.

We are Boricua in our bones.
Statehood?
We never needed your stars
to see ourselves shine.

We had gods before the zip code.
We had names
before the census found us convenient.

[Verse 3 – Pedro Albizu Campos]
He wore a suit.
Spoke like fire.
Walked like thunder
in polished shoes.
Pedro Albizu Campos.
They feared his voice
more than his fists.
So they locked it in a cell
and turned up the radiation.

He said Puerto Rico
was a nation,
not a souvenir.

He said freedom
wasn’t for sale
at the foot of the Capitol.

La patria es valor y sacrificio.
The homeland is courage and sacrifice.

They had the cells.
He had the people.

And we—
We still carry his name
like a war drum.

[Verse 4 – Camp Amache and the Ghosts of Internment]
They said it was for safety.
They always say that
when fear wears a flag.
They came for the shape of our eyes,
not our sins.
They rounded up innocence
and fenced it in.

Camp Amache.
Desert silence.
Barbed wire lullabies.

They gave us numbers.
We gave them dignity.

Fathers drafted from behind fences.
Sons born between guard towers.
And mothers whispering
“Shikata ga nai…”
—It cannot be helped.

But we remember.
And we speak.

Even when the war is over,
the silence is not.

[Verse 5 – The Trail That Still Weeps]
They called it removal.
A gentle word
for genocide.
The Trail of Tears was not a path.
It was a purge.
A forced march
on bleeding feet
and broken treaties.

Choctaw. Chickasaw.
Creek. Cherokee. Seminole.

Ripped from the earth
that knew their names.
Moved like cattle.
Buried like secrets.

And still—
They call it progress.

But the trees remember.
The stones still echo.
The wind has not forgiven.

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[Prologue – Whispered Truths] They edited the scriptures— not gently, not with reverence. They sliced out the names, stapled in their own, and called it holy. Said one people were chosen, the rest—margin notes, deleted scenes. But we were in Genesis too. Buried beneath redactions. Beneath blood. Beneath Latin. If Christ came back, you’d call Him a traitor. [Intro – Breath and Fire] They said we were lucky. He pōmaikaʻi mākou, they claimed. Lucky to kneel on the bones of our grandmothers and call it church. Lucky to trade our chants for chains, our drums for doctrines. But luck don’t drop bombs on Vieques. And liberty doesn’t knock wearing combat boots. Despierta, Borinquen. Wake up. This ain’t freedom. It’s branding. [Verse 1 – The Theft of Hawai‘i] They called it a handshake. A deal. An annexation. But it tasted like sugar. Like rust. Like empire behind a smile. Queen Liliʻuokalani lowered her crown to save her people. They took the crown and laughed anyway. The life of the land is preserved in righteousness. So they paved the land, and sold the rights from us. They ripped up kalo, planted golf courses. Turned hula into hotel lobby acts. Chants into slogans. ʻAʻole mākou e hōʻole i ko mākou kūpuna. We do not deny our ancestors. You did that for us. [Verse 2 – Puerto Rico: The Promise That Wasn’t] They said we were free. But free doesn’t come with blackout seasons and ballot boxes collecting dust. We bled in your wars. And came home to silence. To second-class citizenship with no second chances. Coño, even the hurricanes knew it was a setup. We are Boricua in our bones. Statehood? We never needed your stars to see ourselves shine. We had gods before the zip code. We had names before the census found us convenient. [Verse 3 – Pedro Albizu Campos] He wore a suit. Spoke like fire. Walked like thunder in polished shoes. Pedro Albizu Campos. They feared his voice more than his fists. So they locked it in a cell and turned up the radiation. He said Puerto Rico was a nation, not a souvenir. He said freedom wasn’t for sale at the foot of the Capitol. La patria es valor y sacrificio. The homeland is courage and sacrifice. They had the cells. He had the people. And we— We still carry his name like a war drum. [Verse 4 – Camp Amache and the Ghosts of Internment] They said it was for safety. They always say that when fear wears a flag. They came for the shape of our eyes, not our sins. They rounded up innocence and fenced it in. Camp Amache. Desert silence. Barbed wire lullabies. They gave us numbers. We gave them dignity. Fathers drafted from behind fences. Sons born between guard towers. And mothers whispering “Shikata ga nai…” —It cannot be helped. But we remember. And we speak. Even when the war is over, the silence is not. [Verse 5 – The Trail That Still Weeps] They called it removal. A gentle word for genocide. The Trail of Tears was not a path. It was a purge. A forced march on bleeding feet and broken treaties. Choctaw. Chickasaw. Creek. Cherokee. Seminole. Ripped from the earth that knew their names. Moved like cattle. Buried like secrets. And still— They call it progress. But the trees remember. The stones still echo. The wind has not forgiven.

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