By Brian Powers, Army
Writing Type: Poem
Perhaps to write a brand new song.
Something new (not heard before)
Of ancient history or early lore.
The Roman legions, the gore of war,
The Spaniards hacking an Aztec shore,
The disease of Europe, killing more,
A latent plague, a virgin land,
To prey upon the red-skinned man.
And then what the plague didn't kill,
The firewater drank its fill.
A warrior now too good no more,
The spotted pony on to war.
Upon the hill amidst the sage
Is where the warrior is today.
Look up! Look up into the sky,
A soaring hawk goes gliding by,
Its wings wide spread against the wind,
The whole world his only friend.
If I were this hawk today,
I wouldn't screech so pleasantly
Of the sight below.
So plain to see the ravage rent upon the land,
That the warrior once held in hand,
And held it up, lifted it up toward the open sky,
For the great spirit to sanctify.
His holy land bought for a sack of beads,
Astounding even for white man's greed.
A deed from me to you and you to me,
But the land is still there for the hawk to see.
Notes: Jacque Burgess Karen L. Burgess