
Ragamuffin records sober
Inside an empty, abandoned
Church—shaped like a watch—
His time about to expire.
Music is a divine language—
Universal and untamed—
Listen to the voice of the oppressed.
Listen!—can you not hear it?
It’s the sound of crying—
Native ghosts on the Trail of Tears—
Scions of Christendom’s cruelty.
POET’S NOTE:
An acrostic Scorched Sunday poem. Part of my Scorched Strays collection, Rock Band Edition. This poem draws inspiration from a ragamuffin songwriter whose restless faith carried him beyond Christian celebrity and into life and music among the Navajo. Reflecting upon his final rough recordings, it listens for the voices of Indigenous peoples still crying beneath Christendom’s legacy.
© 2026 Tristan Robert Lange. All rights reserved.




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