An Old Sioux in Prayer

Many years ago the air was pure.

Rolling fields of green,

pure and plentiful,

as were the buffalo.

There was abundance

as far as the sacred eye could see.

Clean flowing rivers,

open space in which to live,

to hunt; raise family.

There were no machines,

no such thing called technology,

no piece of paper

to say where our people could live.

No lies to betray a man’s soul.

As a nation in the early days,

to so-called modern times,

we have always protected our own.

It is our way, our only way.

Long years ago stretching beyond tall mountains,

we lived on a land protected by swollen oceans,

untouched by the future’s pollutants.

In years past when sounds of Mother Earth

gave my people sustenance;

when Father Sun gave light and warmth;

those were when years held tranquil beauty.

Days now no longer as before,

where a boy grew to manhood,

learning the hunt,

learning to provide for family,

learning the ways of our ancestors.

My heart grieves.

Rivers are muddied, the land, congested,

buffalo, no longer plentiful,

and the air reeks of technology.

My people have suffered much.

Years of pestilence, starvation, ridicule,

pushed beyond human endurance,

to face hardships as in days gone by.

As life ebbs from this old warrior’s flesh,

as I prepare to greet my brother’s,

waiting for me across the great divide;

I pray to Mother Earth for solace,

and to Father Sun for giving us life.

I also thank Father Sun

that my people remember the old ways,

to give them continued strength

for days of destiny awaiting them;

days yet that cannot be seen.

The history of our people,

our traditions,

our blood spilled,

and of our spirit,

should never be forgotten.