I chased butterflies as a kid.
On lands that once were battle fields,
where the dirt was stained of blood and soaked by tears of weeping women who held their shredded husbands,
sons,
daughters,
babies.
Women who had cried until nothing had remained.
No tears, no love, no pain.
They had cleansed their insides,
washed out all that there was.
They were only vessels,
that picked themselves up off the ground where they're loved one,
or loved ones,
laid beneath the earth.
They would sing honoring songs,
for all the lives cut short,
taking small steps away until they walked into the other world, where they would meet again.
I chased butterflies as a kid.
On lands that held so much sorrow.
That held so much pain, that the land itself had caved in...
Like many children of the time.
Caving in themselves and shutting out the world of its horrid deeds.
Children who were forced to flea homelands, where they too once, chased butterflies.
Forced to not speak at all, until they learned the tongue of the white man.
Forced onto trains and into scratchy, stiff clothing.
Forced to remove their identity and trade it for ration cards and infected blankets.
I chased butterflies as a kid.
I still do.
Because I have returned,
back home,
where my ancestors gave birth and fed their babies.
Where their bones lay undisturbed beneath many, many layers of earth.
Where they've had many sacred ceremonies, and the spirits told them about me and my return.
I chased butterflies as a kid.
On lands that nourished my people back to life,
back
to the sacred ways of the Lakhota.