Asara's Death - Poem by Herbert Nehrlich
In vino veritas said Bacchus with a smile,
there is no truth that comes from fork-ed human tongue.
Without the essence of my grapes of utter joy
how many mustang thieves would they today have hung,
if they remembered only one small pale-faced boy,
who had been left at last, near burning covered wagons.
And who had wondered off a day, two moons, a mile
while bounty bastards drank from rusty, stinking flagons.
Yes they had scalped those men, blades from the local shop,
and burned their village down to draw them in and near.
The early morning raid which proved a bloody flop -
it brought new life to them, and killed a wandering deer.
There was much hatred now, it needed urgent venting
no bullet big enough, no knife too sharp or keen,
would they be satisfied or utterly unrelenting
and herd their cattle north, though much too soon, too lean.
Clarissa was the one whose life meant all,
they raped and killed her there, right at the stables.
The one who spat at her, then had the gall
to hang her by her feet, off from those cables.
Her blood was dripping still, in liberation
no life was left for her, and none for him.
If he had only strength to search this nation,
and if those chances were extremely slim,
he would avenge her death by bright new measures
enjoy the suffering a thousand ways
and then remembering forgotten treasures,
up on Boothill it is, in sun's last rays.
His name was Winnetou, a Redskin Chief
he was an agile little bugger on a horse,
he was no drunkard nor a womanising thief,
but one great warrior who had never shown remorse.
They faced each other on the top of Niagara,
with bow and arrow pointed at the pioneer frontloader.
There was a name pervading all, it was Asara
and Raging Jack recalled the rotting, human odour.
When arrow flew it met the bullet at midway
they both connected with their target, as ordained,
there was a brief but quite significant delay
when both had tricked the other, acting as if chained
so when evading the next bullet and the arrow
they stepped aside and did avoid that instant end.
But as that ledge up on the Falls was very narrow
it was inevitable that they would descend
into the distance of the turbulence below.
Only the Gods could tell us all about the knife,
that on the way toward his doom that Indian Pro
had used in earnest as he took the soldier's life.
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