My brothers, I cannot understand it,
the people were my lifeblood for so long,
now my pen hardly remembers.
Is the village still there?
Did you go to the mountains?
I can still see the earth,
your story, uplifted,
faded memory, calling to be clear,
feathers on a bridle, hunting for fresh food,
families, around the fire,
the cold is beginning to lift now,
with the sun I can see us again,
talking, smoking the pipe,
my pen busy with fire,
even if I do not live there,
I will be sure to visit sometimes.
Be strong my brothers, be free.
Note: This poem is about inspiration changing over time, which is natural. However, I truly miss writing about First Nations people, and the inspiration.
Blessings to everyone and PEACE!
Poetry © Copyright 2015, nicodemasplusthree
images from google