Defiled Tribes

Sharp contrast of totems against the gathering storm clouds In graveyards of Native Americans, drums beat aloud Sounds of thundering hooves on stark prairies with tumbleweed Lightning cracks its whip, illuminating great artistry Defiled by white men tribes rest in these havens God protects But as thunderstorms approach, their way of life resurrects Ghost riders in the sky forever make their presence known Still trying to reclaim the land that once was theirs alone And when the storms have passed, crimson clouds mark the end of day Through the breeze tribal leaders whisper, “We still know the way.” The peace pipes were passed around with Europeans long dead But those who proffered peace, watched coldly as families bled Come, if you dare, to the resting place of courageous souls For on these stormy nights, these riders are still on patrols The wrath of nature’s sky is fueled by the fire in their eyes They bore a nobility that could not be compromised Written by Diane Locksley on August 18, 2011