Little Flower’s Love Song

You’ll come with me to the mountain
Where wind is gentle and sweet
We’ll scent the Aravaipa
Where river and flowers meet

We’ll flee the drunken Bluecoats
Their guns and terrors shake
And live in highland meadows
Above the cannon’s quake

We’ll sing a song together
And track the water’s spill
And leave our troubled homeland
Below the distant hill

We’ll bring the bones of our fathers
From molding graves unearthed
And bury them beside us
The fertile land re-birthed

We’ll build a lodge for our children
Above a gentle slope
And sing the songs our mother’s taught
And fill them each with hope

Our lodge among the scented pines
With wooded hills surround
We’ll listen to the whispering wind
Where mighty trees abound

The blood and death the White Eyes bring
With whiskeyed lies besotten
We’ll spill their ashes ‘neath the moon
Their butchery forgotten.


Published by monkmoonman

I'm a soapbox Irishman with a fever to set things right in the world. I write stories and poems about the planned genocide of Native Americans, the troubles of youngsters trapped in Special Ed classes, and the fallacy of celibacy in the Catholic church. If you're feverish like me, tune me in.

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