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.