The old one,the wise man, a shaman
defies the tongue that speaks and ushers me
into a tent, a teepee
'See,
when the blue river of pain has crossed over the plain and we lie in the dust like all buffalo must,
it will end', he said,
let us tend to the dead,willing the spirit to fly,the old eyes saw it all and what was denied me before came quite clearly now,
how the wind would shift mountains and the eagles would cry as the people of peoples would die and yet live,be taken but give,
on the hill in the sun stands the shaman,the old one,the wise man and I am in mourning.