One day, a long time ago
my father sat me upon his lap
and told me a story.
"A story of our people,
the first people",
he had said,
"Before man came to this world
we flew with the birds,
we slept beside the bears,
we sung along with the wolves,
we mourned our dead
with the whales,

and then man came,
arising from the shadows like demons,

they plundered,
fires raged, they killed,
brought disease,

so we left.

The trees no longer wink as you walk by,
they stand, tall and proud,
silent as a stone.
You cannot shake hands with a dog,
or a bear, they've become wary,
untrusting.


Man now sing alone,
they mourn alone,
they eat alone,
they've forgotten how to fly.

They write stories of us, little one,
some true, some myth.
They yearn for something beyond what they've got,
what they've caused.

but we can never go back,
they have enclosed themselves inside walls
of rock, leaving imagination for
the children."
And with that, my father shook his head,
smiling sadly.