The Dance Of The Crows As Morning Dawns

The Dance Of The Crows As Morning Dawns

The shaman stood among the circle
Holding the throng entranced,
Enigmatically chanting a blessing
Daring them to doubt his way.

A smoke filled the air, as the sage was lit
Night had just taken hold,
Casting his warning to the crowd
Earning their trust, with his talk of prophecy.

Only then did the story begin
Filling their minds with the visions he had seen,
Transforming his vision into their reality
Holding their thoughts hostage with his tale.

Expressing his fear, to renew their fight
Captivating the clan, he mustered hope,
Renegades of white had invaded the land
Ominous signs of blood and tears his vision had shown.

Warriors rose, the shaman grew louder
Singing their ways, to the night god,
Affirming their determination, their fight
Symphonies of beaten drums echoed.

Mightily they united, moving the circle
On hallowed ground they began their ritual,
Reveling in the spirits the shaman had bestowed
Native paints were drawn upon them.

Indigoes, blues, and blacks masked the faces
Naturally blending in with the darkness,
Ghosts of warriors past danced among them,
Daunting was the cry of the tribal song.

All night the warriors danced with painted bodies,
With the breaking of dawn came the cry of war.
Native feathers, inked skin, they looked of crows.
So ended the dance of the crows as morning dawns.