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The native American and the paleface
Each claiming ownership over the place
For three hundred years they’d been fighting the fight
But peace would be parleyed later that night
Senators; soldiers; a chieftain or two
Agreed to talk peace by a moon that was new
Privates stood guard ’gainst rebellious gun
In the Comanche camp at the down of the sun
My orders were only to tend the camp fire
There would be no talking if it should expire
No parley, no peace-pipe, no fun and no frolic
It seemed that the fire was somehow symbolic
Alas I slipped up and the fire went out
I looked for more wood, there was nothing about
I stared at those grey lifeless ashes, agog
But then I laid eyes on that one massive log
Well I had been schooled but I didn’t learn
If - smothered with paint - wood can still burn
It’s something I really knew little about
But did know of only one way to find out
I chopped it and sawed it and relit the fire
I’d managed to stave off the Comanche’s ire
I felt pretty smug having just saved the day
And smiled as the Comanche chief came my way
Paleface, he said, you watch ancestral flame
It is, like our Totem Pole... sacred the same
To Comanche, fire is the heart and the soul
Well I had to ask... Totem pole???
Copyright © Terry Flood | Year Posted 2021
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