Who Was Crazy Horse? Poem by Liilia Talts Morrison

Born when the Sioux domain ran wide
A giant swatch across the plains
That hugged a mighty river East
Its Western border was Big Horn.

Born with fair skin and curly hair
His path was set in birthing veins

They came to call him Crazy Horse
Not even ponies of great strengh
Could keep up with his furied ways
Nor could his restless soul be bound
By saddles, prairies, or high clouds

So even swiftest steeds could feel
Their limits when this young lad rode

When but a child he saw much death
For by that time the settlers came
The Army did its best to quell
The wilds of Western lands and men

But he whose horse had restless feet
Could not be compromised or bound
Not even common sense or fear
Would to the last touch that dark vein
The vein that to this day runs deep
The thirst for freedom from all chains

The Black Hills were a sacred place
The mountains, plains and rivers held
Footprints of hallowed stories past
Of great respect for what the land
Gave to the Sioux in meat and grain
And never once had their tribe tried
To rape its breast for foolish gold

Time came when Crazy Horse was made
Chief over many, warrior brave
He never signed his name or mark
To papers used in white men’s worlds
Nor would allow his image drawn
For that was not in nature’s plan

He never reached the prime of life
He was cut down when forces great
Had overwhelmed the Indians lives
And winter’s cold had brought disease
And trouble to his wife and kin

A soldier struck him in the back
A bayonet snuffed that brave soul
And even to this day none knows
Just who he was or why he rode
As if his feet had wings of birds
Till his fine mount lost caution, care
And pounded hoofs to break earth’s heart.