Atop that ridge live Inuit
Drinking and smoking weeds
No longer speak of tribal adage
No longer raise reindeer for sausage
No more salmon to come to riverbanks
Everybody left the town besides the drunks
So cold, minus ten is like summertime
School is not fun; all homework to be done
Work nowhere to be found;
besides gimmy fund
No phones, no TV,
no restroom; nature by design
Winchester 30-30 his prized possession
From time to time bags a bighorn
Boredom is his friend;
Corona is his girlfriend
Wasting away in the wilderness plain
Some can not take it anymore
Have one last glimpse at the barrel's bore
Startled the bald eagle from its lore
One has just left the native floor
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
another culture destroyed... the shadow of human uncivilization is creeping upon them, melting the ice... their identity.