Most of the history books don’t tell
What happens to the Indians after they lose.
Always win the Indians fight the bigger power
It is full of light and Reckless Glory
Sounds of bugles the taste of dust and the shouts of battle
The battles become immortal like they should be
Turning obscure places into words of The Bard and songsters lips
Fallen Timbers, Fort Detroit, Fort Phil Kearny and Little Big Horn
Battles in the great battle of the little man versus the big-Man.
That’s what the newspapers like to see! The excitement and the desperate Glory of Wilfred Owen
People like to read about battles because they often lack conviction.
There are no Martyrs in our land anymore.
Such is the world when the power and the protester share the same fire
Such was the same at The Standing Rock.
they were building the pipeline
The people came with all their environmental concerns with bleeding hearts aflutter and came to get their piece of cheap Grace.
Away to think about divine grace is a gift that is never earned.
One can only accept it freely that’s its Beauty
But you can abuse it by merely being a tourist.
My favorite thing is that no matter how much we speak no one ever listens to the Indians.
The battle at the camp was won. For a short while and then it was lost again. Like Little Bighorn so long ago
We live we die with the trauma that we have all inherited.
We are still sad but everyone heard what they wanted to hear and now they’re gone
They came to get a piece of Beauty for themselves even if they took it from us.
They believe in a false Unity God’s without conviction or a blind idiotic universe
They say love is all we need that’s usually what thieves say
I sure hope Christ is real because I want to see him over turning some tables with these folks who came and left
I would have rage but that heals nothing. Instead I will mock them
Like the best of Mark Twain I will call them out for their gilded organic privilege.
I will call out to those Indians who like having their picture taken,
The false medicine man and the full shirt wearers and those who leavery the old ones in the cold.
I laugh because I believe in the fires in the night of those who’ve gone and the Creator who sustains them.
There’s no cheap hope these days. Only an ember undying On a Winter’s Night
Maybe it is time for the world to end it’s only the world.
But we’ll keep trying and we’ll keep fighting because if you know the Lakota you know they love to fight