Ci Oyate* Poem by Ronald Shields

The savage stick
does not come softly,
it is swift,
full of vengeance
in the white hand of justice.

The ravenous maw
spits steel,
turns thunderous herds
into bleached memory;
for tongues, for skins,
for the sport of kings.

Comes the march,
for death,
for the red day
passing into a long night
where lost languages fester
in spirits raw and dull.

The trail
The tears

The Circle

The World remains a dream intact.

When brown hands
wield the savage stick
like a plowshare
the earth will green,
The People will dance
and chant the world anew.

*Lakota for The People