Sunday, January 29, 2017

The Native Outcry


Abandoned by the ones who promised us
a future, we are once again alone.
We knew we could make a circle,
and that the medicine wheel
would heal us from despair,
that we could forge purpose
in the four directions.

The children take hands;
they believe we have a future
if we stand together,
but we have only the water
from our tower of streams and rivers,
the abiding plenty
of nature’s storehouse.

Desire,
the promises you make
have grown shabby,
and we know you do not
love your victims.

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