The Legend Of The Lost Poem by Thomas Vaughan Jones

Deep in the heart of Texas,
one chilly, starlit night,
somewhere along the foothills,
a campfire burning bright.

A dozen boys sat huddled
around the dancing flames,
singing their songs, as boys will do,
and playing boyish games.

From Palo Duro Canyon
a lonely coyote cried;
A breeze sprang up in answer,
and whispering ghosts replied.

They told about the legend,
a battle that was won;
An Indian tribe was vanquished,
a way of life was done.

But sometimes there are moments
they come back from the dead.
They dance the Dance of Darkness,
where Indian blood was shed.

The plains ring out with chanting,
the war drums sound their beat,
and all the world must tremble
from dancing, pounding feet.

The boys were stiff with horror,
their breath framed in the frost
They heard the coming demons,
and knew that they were lost.

In Palo Duro Canyon
there lies a secret grave,
where rising in miasmic mist
there came a warrior brave.

His brow was lined with hoar washed ice,
his eyes a living hell;
A palace of eternal cold,
where frozen souls must dwell.

The children huddled closer,
some held a friendly hand,
But one by one they stiffened
underneath the Demon's brand.

The sun came up next morning,
revealed a ghastly sight.
A ring of frozen children,
in postures pale and white.

Then from Palo Duro Canyon
there came a coyote's call.
The land lay quiet and deathly still.

Came answer - none at all.