Stolen Nation Poem by Tor Magnor Solvang

The wind bit hard on January's morn,
Eighteen seventy, a day new born.
On Marias River, snow lay deep,
While weary Blackfeet lay asleep.

Cold soldiers rode, their horses near,
Searching for trouble, fueled by fear.
They sought a band, for raids they blamed,
But found a camp, by illness claimed.

Heavy Runner stood, his hand held out,
Papers of peace, dispelling doubt.
He thought the truth would be their shield,
But in the snow, a fate was sealed.

The guns they roared, a fearful sound,
Two hundred lost, on frozen ground.
Not warriors strong, but young and old,
Women and children, stories
untold.

The Baker Massacre, the elders cry,
A day of sorrow, beneath the sky.
Yet history's pages, turn so slow,
Forgetting pain, only they might know.

But voices rise, a solemn plea,
To break the silence, let hearts be free.
To honor those, who sleep so still,
On Marias River, against the chill.

Some tales are etched, in every book,
While others vanish, with a single look.
Why does the past, sometimes ignore,
The deepest wounds, that bleed and pour?

The children gather, year by year,
To whisper names, and shed a tear.
Their presence stands, a truth so clear,
A memory held, to banish fear.