You don't know me but you judge me.

The whispers following me down the street,

calling me 'a drunk ' or 'Indian'

They never remember the 'battle' of 1890,

the massacre of Wounded Knee

but I walk on.

Down this road like I have so many times before,

the wind drifting beside me,

my only companion.

'This is the land of freedom' they say,

thinking not of the genocide and slavery but of the opportunities that were created,

these hills and valleys,

when I close my eyesI still hear them,

their cries or laughter and joyous screams

mixed together like a kaleidoscope of sound

Until a sharp shot!

Everything is quiet,

The creek cries.

As I walk my head plays the memories;

Riding across plains of empty land.

Gated in,

taken away,



I see the sign,

the sign of home, comfort and family,

as the sun sets on the horizon

my walk draws to a close,

At the pale peeling door, she beckons me in,

back home,

back with my people,

back where I belong.

I walk in and close the door,

hearing the sadness laced within the laughter.

But no matter:

we will ride again.