The savage stick
does not come softly,
it is swift, 
full of vengeance
in the white hand of justice.
The ravenous maw
spits steel,
turns thunderous herds
into bleached memory;
for tongues, for skins,
for the sport of kings.
Comes the march,
for death, 
for the red day
passing into a long night
where lost languages fester
in spirits raw and dull.
The trail
The tears
The Circle
The World remains a dream intact.
When brown hands 
wield the savage stick
like a plowshare
the earth will green,
The People will dance
and chant the world anew.
*Lakota for The People