Last Few of the Clan

I’ve looked at all the faces gathered in this milling crowd, They’re staring at the music that is growing ever loud. There’s only one amongst them whose head is slightly bowed, He stands near the brown-haired girl wearing an old faded shroud. A young boy reaches outward, he’s been left to wonder why Those pure white doves of freedom can no longer reach the sky. Listens to the minstrel’s words as they slowly drift on by, And watches a young mother try to quell her newborn’s cry. Footprints of the forefathers are long gone from golden sand, Washed away by rolling tides that erode this sacred land. The last of eagle feathers have dropped from an ageing hand, Though many wise men gathered there’s so few that understand. The spirits that still travel know nothing of distant time, The snow-capped mountains of youth lie in mem’ries far behind. They’re dancing to the drumbeats and the rhythms of the mime, Reborn through the images of warriors in their prime.