The Black Hills wept for Thee
The Black Hills wept for Thee
East of the Black Hills of South Dakota,
On the Pine Ridge Reservation,
Live a proud tribe of Oglala Lakota.
Part of the Great Sioux Nation,
On saddled chargers rode half the Regiment,
of the Seventh Cavalry.
A tune they played on behalf of the Garryowen,
was such a sight to see.
While climbing through Prickly pines, they spied,
near the summit of Porcupine Butte.
Spotted Elk with Hunkpapa Lakota tribe,
the chief of the Minneconjou.
Five miles West through the cold day they walked,
the Lakota and soldiers of the Seventh,
Where Wounded Knee creek's icy waters balked,
between hell and heaven.
The Colonel ordered all of the tribe's rifles confiscated,
while the braves danced the ghost dance.
For rumor had spread of a new religion, long awaited,
that would turn the tide of chance.
Then suddenly came the report of rifles fired,
as the women and children fled to a ravine.
From the heights the thunder of cannon, now inspired,
close quarter fighting and lead, now convened.
Who knows where Providence went,
on that cold December morning.
Both guilty and innocent, now spent,
lay dead with little warning.
Bodies of the fallen now sprawled across the snowy plains,
with faces frozen in a moment of violence.
One mass grave with all, is all that remains,
of tears and laughter forever silenced.
In the days that followed medals were pinned to chests,
who proclaimed victoriously.
Though God only knows why, ignoble and divest,
life taken in vain ingloriously.
In the shadow of the land of Sitting Bull,
was now told the tragic story.
Passed down from Mother to Daughter were recounted,
days of lost glory.
Copyright © Quoth TheRaven | Year Posted 2018
|