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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