TEARS OF BLOOD
To the time before the beginning came.
In the center lies the giver of life.
In the creator there is a perfect rhythm.
The messenger walks throughout History.
Teepees surrounding in the golden circle.
Rejoicing in the dance of the drum.
Singing the chants the melodies echo in there hearts.
Dancing among the clouds in a symphony of elegance.
They danced upon the rim of time.
Around the campfires stories are told tracing back their heritage.
The Old Ones past down the traditions.
The ancient beat in the seasons of color.
Like the Sequoia their roots are endless.
Till the dawn of time.
In the sacred ways the Buffalo - Wolf - Bear - Eagle.
They gaze into your eyes and see your heart.
Who will be the guardian of the footprints left behind?
The boundaries of the infinite messengers have disappeared.
When the roll is called for the Gathering of Nations.
The Great Ones will ride forward.
Gathering in the sacred Circle of Brotherhood.
In quiet counsel they will feel the anger.
The scattering sight from there old age.
Once they walked this land having no boundaries.
Where the White Buffalo thunders in there visions.
The tales of a thousand years will be told.
Who will pick up the mighty legends from the Old Ones?
They have tasted of the holy herb of Peyote.
Traveling in the sacred voyage to the mountains of solitude.
Surreal spirits dance in their trance.
Invisible ceremonies in its flight still linger.
The dreams hold the vision quest.
What sights have you seen from the threshold of heaven?
Their visions are not blurred.
The spirit of dreams is echoed in the canyons.
Echoes ring out loud and clear.
Their voices linger in the whispers of the winds.
The white man did not ask////
He took the land from the Noble Red Man.
They ran in erratic flight.
In the slaughter they fell to the ground.
The chilling winds of winter came.
Force to march in the dead cold of winter.
The silent tears of pain descends in frozen breaths.
The years of burden yet to come are racked with torment.
In humiliation they are forced to relocate on reservations.
The ''White Man's Way'' is hoarding the starvation.
The dying say, ''hear my weak voice weeping.''
So this agony will not be lost.
Mournfully calling back the wailing sounds of death.
They died with inevitable dignity.
Buried beneath the bloodstains of snow.
Crimson rainbows are written on the wind.
From the shackles of bondage they survived.
When the nights are long and frozen.
Defiant sorrows poured down like a rain of arrows.
Where are the times for the children's dreams?
The children's laughter fades with the dimming of time.
Mothers and Fathers wept in the night for the lost children.
Of forgotten times the endless line diminishes.
Hold this heart were the cries are cold/
There are blazing tears in the hollow of their souls.
Pain has its own color for hearts grow hard.
Wrapped in the last darkness of their hearts they are weeping.
The embrace of the night is howling.
From the Trail of Tears who will remember/
Who will know of the carnage lived at ----
Wounded Knee or Little Bighorn?
The white man in his haste did not see his sorrows.
There were no penalties for there responsibilities.
They have not tasted of there disgrace.
There are no still waters in his glory.
Their hearts were filled with the fear of death.
Words have too many shadows.
The White Man's words are woven in fire.
When the trails of dreams have been traveled.
The visions of tomorrow are but a flash in your eyes.
You know the Grand Fathers are bound to die.
Once more behold the magic of there essence.
Wrapped in the grace of the Ancient Ones.
Red will stand in the cold and mighty winds.
The last warrior picks up the gauntlets for all time.
For he stands in the purity of blood.
In the burning embers of eternal sleep.
The last defiant war cry resounds.
Savage wounds touching yesterday ignoring the trickling of blood.
The wailing cries will be heard.
We will never veer from the Old Pathways.
The warriors' golden cries wail upon destiny.
We will rest on the day of quiet.
So as we close the tattered doors.
When will the pages of injustice be written for the Red Nations?
The white man should scream with his anguish and torment.
For it will be written within the Book of Time/
In the Destiny of Eternity the Hoop is Unbroken.
Let not the silence be quiet/
May mankind be the Dream Catcher?