Sitting Lark
He plays a song passed down for centuries,
By a nation that exists no more;
On a flute carved from a sycamore tree,
While sitting on the forest floor.
His father was a tribal chief,
For a people who once were great;
Now living on welfare relief -
His punishment for being born too late.
Holding fast to his cultural ties,
He is the last of a dying breed;
Not succumbing to a history of lies;
Warnings to fit in, he does not heed.
At home by himself in the thick of the woods,
Under a full moon in the quiet breeze;
He lives his life the way that he should -
The last to play this melody.
by, Joe Flach for Constance's "Tell His Story" Contest
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