The Ghost Dance

A shaman prays, the Spirit hears While a Seventh Calvary regiment waits Unarmed, a tribe endures a Union's hate Their animosities, and their fears As the blue coats begin to circle... Their wrath begins to circle. That shaman saw but a single Spirit That was split between different beliefs He could accept the white Spirit Chief But the white men would not hear it They would not blend their God With the red heathen God. Anger explodes behind powdered shot Spraying death from muzzled shame Cruelly winning their ill gotten fame Painted heroes claim a tainted spot History claims the Ghost Dance... As death claims the last dance. A Dakota creek runs darkly red Forever silencing the Ghost Dance A chanting shaman dies in his trance One hundred fifty Sioux lay dead Now, only blue coats remain... Only the blue remain. A creek ran red with Union shame When a shaman called the Spirit Great And that Spirit did not hesitate He fell on Wounded Knee and came To take His people home... His people swiftly home. Timothy I. Brumley