Native Soul
I watch your brown face,
deep lines folding across your forehead,
to frame your smile,
your undim eyes.
Long days of sun and wind reflect
off your rough-skinned features,
framed by wisps of grayish hair,
once black and straight,
long as a horse’s mane.
The blue feather, loosely hanging
in your hair--
the only remnant
of your dying heritage--
flutters,
but holds fast.
Your eyes, endless black,
stare back
from a time I don’t know,
a people disintegrated--
where you forget
revenge for stolen land,
hatred for murdered children,
regret over destroyed culture--
to remember
tribal dances among rainbow feathers,
connection with ancient gods
and living people,
blazing fires and whispering flutes--
horses that ran free
across the green
wilderness.
(c) 2000 Ann Lesley Hamvas
