Almost Buried Us Way too Deep in Marin County
Beneath the shadow of the redwoods,
Where tides of history whisper,
The winds once carried whispers of the Coast Miwok
Tales etched deep in the earth and sky.
You almost buried us, the rise and fall,
Of ocean waves and the land’s stubborn call,
Where Marin’s cliffs touch the Pacific’s embrace,
And each rock and stone bears a face—
The ancient Coast Miwok, the pulse of the land,
Now echoes through these untouched sands.
The salt in the air, the mist on the shore,
A quiet reminder of those who were here before,
Almost buried by time, yet their stories still rise,In the sound of the waves, the soft, knowing sighs.
Through the veil of modernity, they breathe,
The spirits of the coast, the trees,
As we walk their soil, they guide our steps,
A silent journey through their sacred depths.
Almost buried, but never gone,
Their voices linger, a distant song,In Marin’s winds,
beneath the redwoods tall,The Coast Miwok’s legacy lives with us all.
Now, the voices are heard again in this place,
A returning of the culture, a sacred grace,
From forgotten lands to the voices once still,
The Coast Miwok rise with the strength of the hills.
Revived in whispers, in ceremony, in dance,
A promise of heritage, a second chance,
To honor the past, to reclaim what was lost,
To stand on this land, no matter the cost.
Almost buried, now reborn,In the arms of the dawn,
The Coast Miwok’s spirit, unbroken, unfurled—the Coast Miwok are back, a gift to the world.2/2 annonomous
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Written by Robert Thomas (Camillo Ynitia Direct Descendant, also my Dad), 1970ish. Writer/poet.
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COME WITH ME
Come with me, to Olompali,
See our land, Apala-Kocha, visit with Apala people.
A few more miles, and we'll be there . . .
on the slopes of Olom-paiyis.
Here's the place, but where are South People?
Where's the micha, where's the Kocha,
Where's the children, and the old ones? ...
Spirit voices softly whisper, "Long gone from here,"
they are no more...
No more laughter, no games, no playing,
no more dancing, loving, dying...
All is finished, all forgotten,
and the race no more begotten.
This can't be.
It can't have ended.....
We were so many, like stars descended.
All the tribes of Olom-kocha, people of
Liwa-ne-lowa.... Shotom-kocha ... Echa-tamal...
Chok-etche ..... Likatiut ..... Olompali,
Where are my People, and where are their children?
Where are the grandchildren, generations unending?
Where are the youngest, never seen by me....
Spirit voices, sadly crying,
tell me how the race stopped living,
tell me of the Apala-ko.
From the treetop's haunted branches,
leafy words, gently tumbling,
tell of those who are no more.
Osacatole, I was then,
beaten to death by alien men.
Quecholusi, people called me,
daughter of Ozacamagen,
mother of five young children,
all of us destroyed.
Toyoama, I was called,
escaped and captured, dragged to death.
Tolleouoc, prayed for husband and for children.
used by soldiers with infections, bore no babies,
died still young, barren, and luetic.
Zaquentole, vaquero for the Mission cattle,
hooked by bull and gored to death,
leaving none to mourn me.
Say no more, no more I'll listen,
I understand what happened here....
This peaceful land, invaded, taken,
happy people enslaved and broken.....
Childless couples, diseased and sterile,
empty wombs and empty cradles.....
from that race no more descended.
Apala-ko, red-headed breathren,
childless children of Mother Earth...
I light my fires in thy memory.
To the winds, I cast these words for thee,
thou shall not be forgotten.
And now I see, there are no more,
no more of thee...
neither in Apala-kocha,
nor elsewhere in the Olom land.
Alone am I, one last micha,
one last person to breath the ancient air,
to touch the earth of Olompali.
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The earth of Olompali, defiled now by foreign hands, is still as pure as the day that we left it. Our villages are gone, and our people who lived there. Our arrows are scattered, our bows are broken. The Creek is dammed, and our ways forgotten. But it will not be that way.
From the words planted here, there will be reaped a harvest of memories, of a people who died but will not be forgotten. For the Olom-ko, the People of Olom-kocha, land of our fathers, and their fathers, and their fathers, back to the beginning of time, when the creatures of the earth were young and the world was just created.
