Trail of Tears











Have you had enough of our tears?







We walked that trail once.







It wasn't to anything near.







Some of us died in the dust.











Our young & old forced from home.







Marched to a new home of nothing.







Rocks , dust & no loam.







Trying to make something of nothing.











We once handcrafted it all.







Now we buy it from Japan.







Our old home is a strip mall,







for the comforts of white man.











The buffalo herds no longer roam.







Our people starve & freeze for lack.







We now call a strange place home.







All the cards were stacked.











In our "palace" of exile







on a reservation of desolation,







where the winter winds blow cold.







Our new home is destitution.











We were force marched to a







Concentration Camp of America







where we are not the master







of ourselves or of our ka.











Maybe someday we will learn







and our red Indian nation return.







The wind whispers freedom in our ears.







Maybe someday it will return.









copyright: Frederick M. Holiday 2019

Red Cliff Rider

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