Migration

Before the knives and iron axes
with which the woods were hewn,
before the guns reached past our arrows
we slept beneath the moon.

In war bonnets of eagle feathers
and weapons made of stone,
on ponies swift and agile
we defended ancestral homes.

Our enemies then were other Braves
painted warriors with spears,
but soon there came a newer foe
who brought much greater fears.

Beyond the weapons we could not fight
came plagues of fevered death,
destroying nations of our folk
by robbing them of breath.

Yet still they dance above the clouds
we see them in our dreams,
beckoning from the spirit world
existing happily it seems.

Down here on this rocky earth
we keep the fires lit,
until that day we rejoice
and together again all sit.

Our clansmen leave behind their names
remembered in the songs,
raising voices and dreaming dreams
of those already gone.

Their dancing fire is now the sun
where the drummers beat the tune,
burning down to sleep at night
in the embers of the moon.

The lands we lost to conquest
they inhabit far away,
secure in happy certainty
there they will always stay.

Great Spirit has moved his people
to above from down below,
and from those happiest hunting grounds
we will never have to go.


by Robert Quinn
all rights reserved