Wrapped In the Flag
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The tribes of Canada's aboriginals are recorded,
On birch bark scrolls their history and stories told;
And in songs and poetry they keep their heritage alive.
(And I have Ojibwe blood in my soul.)
Oh they once owned the land,
Fishing and hunting for survival;
Growing crops and creating beauty,
Warriors strong and so fiercely proud,
Then the white came and stole their land.
Pushed them into reservations to starve,
Yet during World War 2 they volunteered.
Thousands joined the troops to fight in a foreign land,
As excellent snipers, scouts, coders and such brave fighters;
Their blood mingled with that of the pale-skinned troops in battle.
Hundreds and hundreds of native warriors lost their lives far far away,
Buried in the soil of a battlefield and not their homeland with their ancestors;
Courageous, intelligent and the bravest were given war medals for their service.
But after the war ended forgotten,
Veterans ignored by the government;
They have fought for years and for years,
For some kind of war recognition and honor.
And it is only in recent years that honor is found,
Some say it is too little and too late to say sorry;
I know that it is sadly years and years overdue.
Finally the aboriginals of Canada have been acknowledged,
I often go to a monument downtown erected in honor of them;
All the tribes are represented in bronze - and I find myself weeping.
(And I have Ojibwe blood in my soul)
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August 7, 2015
Poetry/Narrative/Wrapped In The Flag
Copyright Protected, ID 15- 697-980-0
All Rights Reserved. Written under Pseudonym.
Copyright © Constance La France | Year Posted 2015
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