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