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POETRY

That bound them along the path of broken promises
Leading to the pit of death.

A black dot in books
400 years of agony and darkness
Limping between forest and mountain
Where lonely flowers live drooping
The silence grows across hunting grounds
Mourns the spirit of brave warriors
And the pounding of bisons' hooves
The silence in the tall grass
Mourns the laughter and gentle songs
From braided maidens with their lovers
The silence of the night mourns
The impish moon
That caught them gliding in canoe
Over bottomless rivers
Chanting their hearts peace
At the bold stars.

The tribal sages
Who dry with age
Would sit in council
Around cedar fires
Taking stock
Of their fenced existence
On Western arid earth
Gift of the White Father
Who lavished fire water upon them
Keeping them in stupor
To steal their grazing and mineral lands
Their lakes and rivers
Taking stock
Of their poverty and disease
Clamped upon their hopeless people
Who were shorn of their culture, language and life
By the great White Father whose word was evil
Whose guns hunted them like animals
Until few were left to face the sun
The wigwams that spotted the earth
No longer could be seen

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