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.
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