Indians

By Museum of Photographic Arts Collections (https://www.flickr.com/photos/mopa1/5711523094/) [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons
We hunt and play with the buffalo
We have the blessing of the Earth
The White Man comes and our lives are ruined
Our herds are dying because of the railroad
We have lost the blessing of the Earth

Our crops gone dry
Our herds are gone
The White Man make us live in crowded reservations
We change and become like the White Man
We adapt to survive
Our ways are being forgotten
Our children – too much like the White Man’s

I give up, I go to the great hunting grounds
Where the herds have gone to
Where the ways are kept
Where the children are Indian
Where we have the blessings of the Earth

 

This piece was written while I was in high school.  I don’t remember what exactly sparked it, though I do remember our history class was discussing the Department of Indian Affairs and some of the law suits that occurred when the Midwest was opened to White settlers.

This has been published before, in the high school’s annual literary publication.  To this day, I still feel the force of the poem, for all races, not just those native to American soil, that have been forced out of their homes and into restricted living conditions because another culture, race, or people wanted the land and/or resources.

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