I dedicate this poem to all the Native American Indians.

The night is thick with smoke,
as the fires burn unyieldingly
through the towns huts,
destroying everything in its path,
never looking forward, never looking back.

Men, women and children, fight for their land, they morn,
for they have lost so much, this night, all to the white man.

Women watch as their lives work, explode in a rage,
as the flames lick at their throats,
never giving in, never giving out,
and never looking away.

They fight with every last shred of humanity,
but they have been far driven beyond, sanity.

As the night is filled with blood curdling screams,
from deep within the fire, rises, the Mighty Warrior,
he is burning with much hate and disregard,
for the man who has no heart, his body is sheen with blood
and sweat, a puddle at his feet, tells a story of sadness and repine,
but he knows he will fight till the last day, till the last night.

For he is the Native American Warrior, standing amiss the fire.

©2001

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