Tales sown, wrought with waste and woe
passed on from hands of red to white,
as the sinking sun beats crimson gold
into the flame of the autumn night.
As auburn tears wash worn
and whiskered faces in day's dark
One learns to keep the silence, still burning,
borrowed, in hallowed hearts.
And what once was rouged with sacred soil
is now stark.
As night becomes a blessing to the clay red soul
and once again, beating drums in distance toll,
their measured strokes of scarlet syllables
sound the darkening honor roll.
Though wounds, with time, may heal and fade,
signed scars remain atop the prairie.
Tribes once were held in reverent acclaim
Forever and more shall they perish.
And elder ones are quick to tell of
honor and of brave brothers,
and of the wounded Warlord's rasping reign
still faithful to fallen others.
And of knowing the Earth, of sharing the Sun,
of music wracked with Wisdom,
of blessings beyond one's arms and eyes
of promise and peaceful tradition.
When Man and Maker loved each day
and dawning brought new reason,
and God's green sacred grasses grew
and change was the turn of the seasons.