Indian Blood Poem by Granville Holt

His hair is black and has a strange cowlick,
His eyes, dark, as a crucible abyss,
His mind sits cross-legged, flaming at the wick
Of ancient campfires. His songs sigh, restless,
To be of the wild wood, as Hawk and Bear,
To be brave Wolf's lone howl and Eagle's scream,
To be at home in forest night, with Deer
Sleeping, as he kneels to watch Fawn's new dream
Keep rhythm with his heart's bold tom-tom beat.
They call him Indian, but that one word
Could never paint his secret soul, defeat
His boundless spirit, silence his songbird!
And with each breath he yearns for that one hope,
To die beyond the circle of the rope.