Smoke circled within the birch bark shelter,

a tiny mouth suckled upon his mothers’ breast,

born in a world without fear in a world that

would one day disappear.

Innocent, he grew into a man, a warrior, riding

into battle with only a “coupe stick” the blood

of another had never stained his hands, until he

taught how to kill by those who called him

friend from a far away land.

The once peaceful coupe sticks of war soon lay

rotting below the ground, principles, and the

right to freedom within  gone, the lands where

they were born became the white man’s home.

Driven to desert broken spirits would never mend,

no longer peaceful warriors they lived with scars on

their souls as well as their skin.

Mother’s eyes cried invisible tears, aching breast

and arms mourned for dead babies that would

not be forgotten by the passing of the…