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
16 Sunday Sep 2012
The words sway, slowly imprinting the message you send through… i liked it
Ronald E. Shields said:
Thank you for reading my poetry … it really means a lot to me.
Always welcome.. love poetry