INDIAN SUMMER

He stands alone above Yosemite Falls,

Looks down on the camp called Cursy,

Where tourists look up at the canyon walls

And seek to forget their worries.

He knows little of the city or its strife,

Cares little for the pale-faced man.

And they know nothing of the red man's life

Nor could they understand.

He sees the park as The Great Spirit's Gift,

As a people, and a nation.

They see it only as trees and rocky cliffs,

Designed for their recreation.

He sees the beauty and the game,

And plenty, so he may not starve.

And they see only to leave their name,

Painted on rocks, or trees to carve.

He comes and goes, nothing is changed.

His passing leaves no mar.

They come - and the parks deranged

With an everlasting scar.

Stolen from him - Given to them,

Like a love that's been misplaced.

High upon the mountain rim,

He sees his land defaced.

He climbs to pinnacle, looks to the sky,

And remembers the bygone years.

And splits the night with a lamenting cry,

For an Indian cannot show tears.

And he tears his hair, and throws ashes

On his head, his body, his feet,

And thinks of the battles, the clashes,

That brought the Indians to defeat.

And he says the battles are done,

And I am left to survive.

But there is still a battle to be won

If I must remain alive.

This is my home, this is my land.

It belongs not to the fools below.

Given me by The Great Spirit's hand,

The fools have got to go.

Thus it has always been.

So it will be, it seems.

Always, the pale-face sins,

Forever the red man dreams.

The white man cuts the Redwood

To build a steeple tall.

The redman weeps over dead wood,

To see his temple fall.

The redman goes in silent grief,

To the Great Spirit, in prayer.

The white man professes great belief -

But in his church...There's no one there.

Trinka Powers (copr. 1989)

Return to Spirit Songs index page.
Return to GypzyLady's Poetry and Prose page
Return to GypzyLady's Table of Contents

This page hosted by Get your own Free Home Page