Spirit Walk

Sometimes the roar of the winds, Steal my breath away. Muffling the world wrapping it in silence. Sometimes the heat of the sun, Burns it's way across my spirit. Leaving my soul dry and barren like a desert. A cry of the long dead buffalo, Echo in caverns where memories hide. The voices are the only sounds carried by the wind. As if long ago dust stirs to life. Bringing ancient ones to fight battles once more. Painted faces crying into the sky, Asking for favor from Mother Earth and Father Sun. I see the markings on the cave walls, A lagacy of pain and sorry to numbered to count. Yet I see lines of a proud people. Being beaten along the way, Because lack of food has made them stumble. See children shot just because they cry. A trail of bloody footprints. Yet they are a proud people. An echo of voices, As I travel here among the dead. Each has a tale to to tell. Or is it the need to get close, To one who walks by day among the living. The pain even remebered here, Is so strong it's almost tangible. I feel the pull to return, From this dead place, My Uncles hand upon my arm. It's like wadding through fog, A fog made of grasping hands. As they turn to go. Yes, a proud people. Written February 1st, 2002 © on Feb 01 2002 01:55 PM PST, Phyllis Thompson   0 • 10