Nation of Thunder and Rain

I walk upon the sacred soil
and know I wasn’t the first to toil.

Those who wore brilliant feathers down their back;
taking only what they needed, yet having nothing to lack.

Yet there came a time
when they were forced to leave the land they knew.
Off to deserted skies of blue.

Taken from the rivers and lakes;
yet traditions held from sleep to wakes.

Stronger bonds were grown between
the sounds of drums.
Fires danced for rain to come.

They felt the tremble of Buffalo beneath their feet
and gathered enough for their families to eat.

They watched as others spoiled the land.
Cranes replaced the work of man.

Gathered within their teepee at night,
they prayed to the Heavens to bring back the right.

Soon, the dust shall rise above,
and smoke will swallow the land of love.

Rains shall come in torrent flows,
and others will find the land we know.

A flattened place, yet deep within,
they’ll hear as the drum beats on again.