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My Chief ...
Thoughts go back to it again, the day you found me on the plain,
Bloody from a musket wound, and dying slow in cold and pain.
My kind abandoned me to die, not wasting cares on such as I,
An orphan white boy, still a child, a troubled lad, I won't deny.
Yet, you showed me mercy then, troubled not by what I'd been,
Raised me as your very own, taught the ways of Pawnee men.
I can't say it's an easy life - simple, yes, but hardships rife,
Still, my gut and heart are full, joys of family, food and wife.
Now, I see this poignant fire, sparkling embers drifting higher,
As the tribe conducts you home, dancing at your funeral pyre.
Each fiery cinder turns a thief - taking you, my father, chief,
Oh, to but command the flames to burn away my crushing grief.
Yet, as each one climbs on high, the precious times of you and I,
Are made to moments, ever-bright, and set as stars ...
Upon the sky.
~ 2nd Place ~ in the "Tribute To Native Culture" Poetry Contest, Line Gauthier, Judge & Sponsor.
Copyright © Gregory R Barden | Year Posted 2018
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