The Trail of Tears from my People

The Trail Of Tears From My People

Black against the pastel sun he stands,
the lone flutist plays on a reservation.
Music tells of the heartache white men gave,
to the dwindling and proud Indian Nation.

They did not take from or abuse the land,
they knew it was not theirs.
They took only what they needed to live,
being thankful in smoke-filled prayers .

Men came from the white man's army,
deadly presents in an army box.
In false friendship army blankets handed out,
filled with white man's small pox.

Forced to march across the land,
for many miles they could not stop.
Many died along the way buried,
high amid the pine-covered mountaintop.

Babies starving from mothers dry of milk,
and old ones leather faces with hair of corn silk.
Now in earth they lie in papoose and blanket,
handmade prayer beads buried with them,
as a gift to the Great Spirit to thank it.

Feel them in the wind and hear them,
echoing across land and in deep forest.
Whispering of a great people all but lost,
unified spirits sing in sorrowful chorus.

Sent away with no apologies or any reparations,
their stories passed on to their children,
of the White man's desecrations.

by: Kimarie Manhart-Freeman