Ode To Tashunka Witco

Crazy Horse,

what would you have said to me

As I stood there on your sacred ground,

Hills and prairie and plains

Rolling,

so many years removed from the hands of its children,

If not their hearts?

Would you have welcomed me, accepted me,

Knowing the deep respect I hold for you, your people, and your

culture;

Or would have, instead, held me accountable

For the sins of my forefathers ---

Manifest Destiny.

How ever wrong,

the right to take ---

And turned me away?

-----

I wonder…

-----

Confront me, though, you couldn’t;

yet, still, you were there.

Beside me, your presence felt;

On the wind, your spirit sensed;

And your voice, never to be silenced,

in the whisper of the leaves

I heard.

Echoed down through the years

In heartache, you cried;

Calling forth both man and beast ---

the Spirits of the Dead ---

To live again, the countless ones,

whose lifeblood flowed

Crimson rivers on the amber waves.

-----

And, but for the moment,

you were born to me…

-----

Listening, I yearned to satisfy,

to fulfill,

But to no avail.

Insatiable, the longing I have to know this land

as you once did ---

Wild and Free,

Untamed.

The way it was timeless ages hence

before the great flood of the Wasichu

that dirtied the water and split the ground,

Tainting them both with lies and greed.

An island only now remains;

A testament;

A fettered glimpse into the past…

-----

The beauty of this place,

its serenity and sanctity eternal,

embodied in the few survivors grouped in clusters.

Buffalo,

once a multitude

but since reduced without regard,

Roaming ---

uninhibited, unrestrained ---

like those who before them came,

Tiny wakes of cresting, matted brown.

-----

So, too, the majesty encapsulated

in the pride and dignity retained

by those of the modern tribe,

And emanating, if only slightly in some, with magnificent radiance

from behind such eyes of great despair.

Impoverished,

beaten down

and caged,

though still unconquered,

Native American, Indian, they are not

and nor were you.

Rather, the essence of their being rightfully known as

Lakota, Oglala, Teton, Sioux ---

The People.

Your own, true name

Tashunka Witco.

-----

Afoot upon these rocks

where, many moons before, you walked,

I strove for a Communion I might never attain.

One of forgiveness, understanding ---

A chance to know.

A coming together again

of Man and Nature,

and of two peoples not so very far apart,

But for too long separated by the tears of yesterday,

and the prejudices that remain

Like a bitter aftertaste left behind

in the sour wake of history.

-----

Hidden away

in ramshackle tepees,

The radio speaks their call to arms;

Four hardened faces, false heroes, stare back from a distant hill;

And the cold, glass bottle bares to them your name

in mute dishonor ---

I see,

I hear,

I know.

In this war, there were no winners.

-----

Standing there, too,

before your immortal warrior’s image ---

Imagined though it is,

etched in the stone that resurrects your spirit

from the womb of the earth where you were fell

and where you will forever lie in secret rest ---

My own heart sank and died then rose,

saddened at first and then revived.

Custer couldn’t kill you,

because you cannot die.

The fight goes on, and you still lead.

For in the shadow

of that brave and unmoving stance as you appear,

keeping the quiet guard --- an unending, vigilant watch ---

in sacred union with Seicha

over the world so strange and unfamiliar,

My own soul drank in the strength and hope ---

Empowering ---

that even now, in death, you give

To those that followed after.

-----

Promise.

Fulfillment.

A need.

-----

Can it ever be?

Perhaps.

I wonder…