Standing Rock

At Standing Rock, an elder stands Alone against an angry sky— A patch of white beneath the storm, That seeks to swallow him alive His eyes look out on Turtle Island— The sacred ground that he calls home: An ancient place unspoiled by greed, Untainted by machines and smoke And as he stands against the world, I wonder if he feels the weight Of all of history bearing down, Wave after terrible, endless wave I wonder if he thinks about The stolen land that once was his; Of traditions now forever lost In old forgotten languages I wonder if he calls to mind The Trail of Tears or Wounded Knee, As he becomes invisible— A costume worn on Halloween I wonder if he laughs or cries To see the ghosts of treaties past, Revived by greed, and blood, and fear, Returning for the table scraps.