In the beginning the dreamweaver stood
on a bluff over the plains,
at one with the nations around him
when no one needed to explain,
how the land was taken,
replaced with a network of shacks
and it was called a reservation
by the white rule of law and tact.
There was a time that all was poetry
the dreamweaver sadly recalls,
and now he’s the solitary figure
left behind to remember it all.
and when he hears the old drum calls
whispering on the wind
he says a prayer to sky and earth,
return us home again.
Poem by Paul D Aronson.