Savage

The indians gathered
ciricle around the fire
dance until hearts are content and feathers are ruffled.

The Great Father can see this
He smiles.

The indians call to the sky
brightly colored face paint to match
the colors of the clouds.

The Great Father can see this
He smiles.

The indians tell stories of how
the Great Father saved them
from generation to generation.

Oh but now, not now.
I am not indian, we are not indian.
There are no more indians.

Perhaps the Great Father closed His eyes
just for one second.

And the indians were gone.

Mostly I just think the Great Father weeps
for the lost children skin and blood red as the sunset sky.