Prayer For A Native Son Poem by Clyde King

I drew your portrait recently.
I wish I knew your name, your tribe.
You are a fine specimen of a man,
A proud warrior. But no more.
No more will you ride to
Anywhere you want, no more
Will you hunt deer and buffalo,
No more will you confront
Your enemies with courage.
No more will you wear proudly
Your breastplate of deer rib bone,
Your copper forearm bands, your
Eagle feathers, your neckband
For bravery, your warrior's sash.
These are artifacts of a dead man,
Anachronisms as useless as the
Dust your body has become.

When I looked at your eyes
I saw in them pride and a deeper
Sadness. Your warrior's spirit
Was gone. Your freedom to live
As a human being, as free as the
Wind, the eagle, and the wolf.
In your countenance I saw humiliation,
Defeat, surrender to powers that
The Great Father could easily have destroyed.
When the spirit is stricken there is no
Life, joy, happiness, freedom.
It makes me ashamed of the
Race I come from to know
The horrors that flew down
Upon you, like a carrion crow.
May the Great Father remember
You and restore you to his promised
Land, the earthly paradise.

Nov.2020