The Death Song of Chief Seattle

When the Red Man shall have perished
And the memory of my tribe
Leaves the sun and wind and rivers
And the lands where we reside
We shall leave our bones upon them
On the shoreline by the water
In the forest and the woodlands
In the silence of the pathways
In the treetops filled with music

When your children stand before you
Hearing whispers from the forest
Frightening murmurs of the spirits
Sifting through the wooded hillside
Come to you for understanding
Who have played with Red Men children
Clothed in deerskins soft and supple
Playing games with joyful faces

Now the forest dark and silent
Now a myth among the White Men
Still the laughter of the children
Still the memory evermore.


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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