White Buffalo

(Ska Thathánka)

 Spirit wind quietly flow within my souls center being,

Where tribal drums confides within my center eyes seeing.

Beckon my Sioux blood within to answer the voice,

That echoes amidst the Appalachians mountainous hoists.

Spirit wind takes me to the middle of your four winds,

Where the tribal nation gathers to assist my hearts mend;

Beyond the raven that soars high above my hearts falling,

To the empty fields below amongst the spirit wolfs calling.

Show the land before our mothers lair lay roiled with remnants,

From the left over harkened despair tended by mans ignorance.

Give me sight to look upon the painted cascade layered plains,

And the glorious sunrise melting upon its golden field grains.

Spirits winds I plead for adherence to the two-forked narrow path,

Warn my ancestors to seek shelter before the rainfalls beading wrath.

The summoning howl commenced from a cold winters yellow moon,

Now bellows within the spirit wolf that calls upon my tomb.

My plea was heeded late after the commencing wave  

 As I stood witness to the onslaught of many young braves;

The settlements that once painted the cascade layered plains,

Were now layered by buildings resting upon it fruitful grains.

I saw a line of a great people walking in droves,

Upon a path away from a land that they called home.

I witnessed educators trying to steal their ancestral pride,

That left some hearts barren and the fruit on their plate dry

Amongst the ravage land that I had walked in despair,

Was a gathering of elders upon the mountainous lairs;

 Summoned upon the tribal nations I heard their voice,

Announce the arrival of the White Buffalo's coming rejoice.

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