Accord of Patience
The mourn of the native flute soars
Through old and new, flat and tall,
As a whisper, dancing and crawling as its
Story begs, pleads, hear me pale, dark mass,
You that polluted our Mother and twisted
Our ways useless have borne the shame.
Tradition still learned by those who hear,
Of a proud, respectful and brave people
That lived in harmony with Mother,
Father and The Wise One Above.
Onward pushed by the Oppressor, our ways
stripped by those who challenge the Spirit
and forced to mimic the pale ways. Our lodge
fires crushed, unadorned clothing without purpose or
the caress of a creative hand, our tongue silenced,
the ceremonial prayers choked as
rope
fashioned in a noose, swinging.
Look, pale dark mass, what you
have done
With your plunder. While you breed and
Spread your sickness, we feed our
fires and
Tend our young, unpolluted to your
rot.
And wait, as Mother slowly
restores us as Her keeper.
