© by Saurav Dutt
Nothing feels sacred now, war torn the land asunder,
Burying the bones and the emotions deep within the land
It’s burnt and still burning and the smoke is still rising.
Looking around there’s feelings left tattered,
after the wall of broken silence,
Pressed down, covering the faces left,
letting the shadow slip right over their heads.
The old Sioux chief is hungry and so is his family and they thirst
Nobody really listens beyond the sunken horizon,
not really seeing their expressions
So he points to an apple tree shorn of its fruits
And says ‘I pray not that God gives us apples
But that he takes apples and leaves enough for my people’
We looked towards the west; saw a young boy running
across the desolate land
Chasing a spirit that smiled to him, a warmer smile than the last time
Wondering if his fathers sacrifice was enough to build enough love.
All the people stood by and watched the fire of the sun descend,
And then they embraced the breath of the heat beneath it.
Took themselves a seat and they counted their dead.
The wind walker knows in his heart his pain is nothing in comparison,
To his father’s father who died with his fathers eyes watching him.
The chief wept silently, remembering those who lost their land
as cannons clattered in the air,
They scattered too, scattered across the blue sky,
so the clouds hung like scarves those days.
The old chief rises to his old, crinkly, stubborn feet and he
Yearns to make
A connection with the earth,
Eyes blinking and fluttering and blinking some more,
If only his eyes can see through the smoke and tears.
So many tribes fought and died for the right to carry his name,
When the wind will cry it will remember his.