Warriors’ Lament by Michael Peck

I am not a silent poet

The sun rises
upon their broken dreams
scattered pipes
laying on top of the unearthed graves
young and old being shot for standing on their ground
crushed beneath the boots of progress

Angry faces
pointing guns at
unarmed men, women, children
dreams of paychecks
that have been halted
by someone else’s world
these tribes have lost so many times before
these men think they will lose again

Bodies, dreams old and young
heaped up
like a mound of buffalo skulls
while their ancestor’s white bones
lie beneath the bulldozers treads

Still, they come
standing together beating their drums
like the ghost dancers of long ago
have walked through the portal
of time

Their message renewed
warriors dressed in old blue jeans
armed with the love of their land
shall defeat those who want them dead
their spirits drowning in their own greed
their arms tired
of their rifles needless weigh

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