He’s come to ancient plains, again.
Wide and open, high and dry.
Unrolling before his misting eyes,
He feels the tug of ancient ties -
A primeval sorrow,
His gut rarely lies.
Breathing the landscape in ...
He imagines America,
Before settlers arrived;
A life under
Different skies.
Oh, how they tried
To disguise
Their insatiable eyes.
Twisted, and tainted,
By treatises and lies,
Used for desire,
And profit designs;
Parceling the land,
That sour reprise.
But beneath
The ringing cries,
Of culture broken,
And shattered lives,
A wisp of her soul resides;
In stories told,
And countryside.
Places where nature
Remains untried,
And no realtors
Have thought to subdivide.