The years fall so softly like the leaves,
And those we knew dwindle in the night,
While our soul now heals and seldom grieves
About what we recall and try to write.
In my storage room one day I found
An old cardboard box that I’d forgot,
With a worn rawhide cord it was bound—
Inside was a life that had came to naught.
It was all that now did but remain
Of that old chief He Who Sees the Dreams—
All that he had owned or had a claim
When he was still one with the earth and streams.
There were some moccasins and old beads,
Feathers, knife and broken shaman’s staff—
It was the stuff of all of his needs
As I sorted what to keep from the chaff.
At the very bottom of that box
Was an old dusty buffalo hide,
Under three painted and sacred rocks
Upon which that old Indian had cried.
I could now recall it in my mind
As he wrote on the back of that skin—
How he wailed and he moaned as he signed
His last prophecy of a world that sinned.
I read the words I taught him to write
About evil days to come too soon—
Of the lamb that was a wolf in night
That would then devour all the earth and moon.
He would be the dark bold buffalo
That promised new faith to transform all—
But we would bring just death that was slow,
And a once great nation would die and fall.
This great leader would promise so much,
But give us the bitterness of lies—
All would diminish with his cruel touch—
What little remained would be fit for flies.
He Who Sees Dreams wrote of deceptions—
A man that was not all that he seems—
An anti-man for all creations,
A man known now as the killer of dreams.
I read again these words with sadness
And know now that it has come to pass—
The great deceiver rules with madness—
We can only pray that our God is vast.