With Death Comes Freedom…In Honor of my Great-great-grandfather “Hawk”

Smoke circled within the birch bark shelter,

a tiny mouth suckled upon his mothers’ breast,

born in a world without fear in a world that

would one day disappear.

Innocent, he grew into a man, a warrior, riding

into battle with only a “coupe stick” the blood

of another had never stained his hands, until he

taught how to kill by those who called him

friend from a far away land.

The once peaceful coupe sticks of war soon lay

rotting below the ground, principles, and the

right to freedom within  gone, the lands where

they were born became the white man’s home.

Driven to desert broken spirits would never mend,

no longer peaceful warriors they lived with scars on

their souls as well as their skin.

Mother’s eyes cried invisible tears, aching breast

and arms mourned for dead babies that would

not be forgotten by the passing of the years.

Proud people herded and confined in a worthless

land, no longer free because of lying and greed,

hungry and dying of the trespassers disease.

Truth is in the journey, many tried to take a stand,

the rivers became their burial grounds, and their

blood stained the desert sands.  Remember these

people they held onto hope until the end, warriors,

women, children, all dead because they thought

the white man was their friend.

An old man in his final moments knew that only in

death… freedom could be found, his fading memory

returned to songs merging with wood smoke, a tiny

mouth suckling upon his mother’s dark breast; born

in a world without fear, a world he now remembered,

a world that did disappeared.



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