The Greater Canton Writers' Guild, Inc.
His arrow tips now darkened
with dried buffalo blood
his eyes dried with sand and dust
the wigwam falling around his head
his wife and family all lay dead.
the air now cold the frost is deep
he hangs his head and begins to weep.
Why have these things come to pass?
The wound now deep in his side now bleeds
he presses the dirt and mud inside.
One more fight and then he'll die.
The sun now warms his now cold
and dried heart.
He prays to the great spirit for one last start,
picks up his bow and moccasined feet
one step for mankind and into the street.
His language, his culture is all but forgotten
all his people who still search for salvation
find no hope on the government reservation.