On the grassy bank where the clear waters run,
Stands Lone Wolf, the Chief's youngest son.
Mirrored in the waters of that small river bed,
Is the history of his ancestors long since dead.
Once a proud people, rulers of the land
Reduced to a few by the white man's hand.
Around the camp fire where stories are told,
Are the last to remember, the warriors of old.
They speak of great valor, deeds of the past.
The strong, giant shadow their tribe once cast.
The winds blow cool where the buffalo once run.
Their rumble now silenced by the white man's gun.
In the memory of his people, where their spirits still ride,
Lone Wolf re-lives his legacy of pride.
Hands raised to his God, He shouts out loud,
"I'm the son of my father Chief Black Cloud."
|
| Writing Prompt |
Write a rhyming poem with a western theme. Can be a story or poem, any length, but must rhyme. |
Author Notes
The end of a great people.
|
|
