The Hunt
Snow freshly fallen
On gentle mountains.
The noon sun bright
In skies so cloudless.
Across the moor
Trees rise high.
Soft winds entice
Aspens to sigh.
Silent is nature
In cold Tahoe;
The sacred place
Of tribe Washoe.
The forest is quiet
For nature slumbers.
In caves and dens
Natural chambers.
Men begin tradition,
Being up and active.
Going through beds
Of natures inactive.
Fearless they are
Playing in the fields.
Where nature sleeps
And the land shields.
Just like children
These men love to play.
But the difference
These men love to prey.
Shots so loud
The earth shakes.
Men stomp around
But nothing awakes.
Those who sleep
Had no chance.
Again man has won
It shows, in his stance.
This act of disturbance
In the resting season,
Hunting and sporting
To God, it's treason.
Once pure white,
Now stained red.
Once virgin snow
Now memorial for dead.
Please comment, I'd like to hear what people think.
Copyright © Te Ue | Year Posted 2017
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