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Poem

She walks houndreds of miles, scraping her foot 
to the icy ground or crippled leaves to Olklahoma.
Following the path to weeds, and trees of their roots,
watching a friend, a lover, a relative spewing their lives
and hope and all in pain, sending in air a blood filled aroma.

Mountains are rocks at easy steps, and woods is just the trail.
The snow is uncomofortable, but easier than summer heat,
To the following of the trail, she howls to the moon knowing hope will fail.
And as soon as she arrive to the place called home, everyone
has swelled up to death crouching underneath their own feet.

And the white men who carried them there, are following back.
They look at Indians to watch them die all for their land.
I can just imagine my heart a weeping grief as they pack
to leave our world.  But I wish we did mix in perfect match
like the colors of red and yellow making an orange crayon.

She, the indian of young girl, screams a bloody yelp.
Singing a song is nothing no more, dreaming a dream 
is helpess now, and not even prayers are no help.
And I'll miss even the color of their skin and hair, and think of their
wants and dreams. And I'll protect their land from a harming scheme.

The trail of tears, is a bloody trail where millions of feet and toes
have been bleeding to scrape upon the dirtied road.
Where the Indians have lost their patience and pride they used to show.
Now all has died to this empty road.

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