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Lakota, Arapaho
Cheyenne, Oglala
Minneconjou
Where are they now?
Why is there so much dust
Over a fillet of memory?
The smoke fires are dead
And the discords of our life
We write as history.

     It is significant still
     The shallow content
     In which we drown for glory
     It is I 
     Remnant of a forgotten tear
     That must tell
     The similitude of a coordinated hell.

Despair is a state of mind
A featherlessness
Of warriors wings ... a moan
Leaking from a drum
On deserted prairie afternoon
I watched the ghost dancers
Cried with their feet,
And never saw a thing more desolate.

       These men freed from the bondage of their souls
       Came slow circle
       Through the trance of disbelief
       Lingered in the music of drums
       Retired from the melody of their hearts
       O how they danced
       The ghost dancers deserted by their magic
       They danced
       For the return of the buffaloes
       They danced
       Invoking the prairie grass to gallop
       From the horses feet
       Bowing only to the mastery of the wind
       Like fodder bows to fire and change

And the black cloud stood stagnant
Lethargic in the emptiness
For from the black breast came
No white milk to put out the fire of shame
Before the women and children vacant eyes
They danced for the land
That had aborted their dreams
And corralled them 
In the tragedy at wounded knee

       I don't care how we limp from it
       Regrets are only the arthritis of desire
       The buzzards roof the certainty of the eye
       The heat is white here like a bone
       Beneath the grinching grass
       The hoof beat dies
       And the ghost dancers caper
       In an agony beyond reconciliation.

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