I hear the cries of my grandmothers and
grandfathers, I feel their fear; I walk with
them in my dreams on the Trail of Tears.
Their feet bloody as they walked the rutted
trail, every scar on their backs another story
to tell. They planted crops, gave blessing,
taking from the land only, what they would
need, a word they did not know… greed.
Strangers with pale skin came from the east,
my people taught them how to live, when no
longer needed they drove them from their
ancestral homes. The Grandfathers and their
families stood tall, their backs they refused
to bend, herded like cattle to a far off land, to
die in hot barren sand.
My people believed that the land belonged to
no one, given to all by the “Great Mystery”; still
they died with broken souls never knowing that
their story in time would cover the blood-splattered
pages of history. They watched as women gave birth
and warriors carried the dead; the children went to
sleep hungry with the ground as their bed.
The day came when these great people were corralled,
given musty water and bug-infested cornmeal to eat,
in a place with no hope, to the pale man they were
bound, a killing field where the blood of my family
spilled upon the ground. I hear you my grandmothers
and grandfathers, your cries in the darkness of night;
for in my dreams I walk with you, I feel your fear; I wake
each morning with the taste of your tears.
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