Last Few of the Clan
I’ve looked at all the faces
gathered in this milling crowd,
They’re staring at the music
that is growing ever loud.
There’s only one amongst them
whose head is slightly bowed,
He stands near the brown-haired girl
wearing an old faded shroud.
A young boy reaches outward,
he’s been left to wonder why
Those pure white doves of freedom
can no longer reach the sky.
Listens to the minstrel’s words
as they slowly drift on by,
And watches a young mother
try to quell her newborn’s cry.
Footprints of the forefathers
are long gone from golden sand,
Washed away by rolling tides
that erode this sacred land.
The last of eagle feathers
have dropped from an ageing hand,
Though many wise men gathered
there’s so few that understand.
The spirits that still travel
know nothing of distant time,
The snow-capped mountains of youth
lie in mem’ries far behind.
They’re dancing to the drumbeats
and the rhythms of the mime,
Reborn through the images
of warriors in their prime.
Copyright © Daniel Larson | Year Posted 2014
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