When we were driven from
our homeland,
the Old Man hid the Sacred
Fire
of our ancestors
for safe keeping. Our bones
were weary from the grinding edge of battle.
Our minds were filled with confusion
we could not move from the places we had fallen.
When the Old Man blew on the embers,
a tonge of flame pierced
our center of despair.
We beat our wings,
steadily, to keep the Sacred Fire alive
with the powder of resistance.
Day and night
we struggled to stay warm. Apprehension
melted. For three hundred years of darkness
we held on to the light. The Sacred Fire
of existance is how we survived
the delusion that the efforts of our conquerors
last longer
than the dead arrows of our ancestors.
