|The Native by Ron Monroe|
Chief Ghost Wolf watched through pensive and blurry eyes as his people danced against the firelight, like they had done for as long as time remembered. Like blades of grass set in motion by the tranquil prairie winds, so too did the Lakota people sway in rhythm with the pounding of the drums and the enchanting cadence of the proud and once mighty tribe. Dressed in their elaborate and colorful traditions passed down through the ages, his people opened up their troubled hearts to the Great Spirit in the sky.
He watched as the elders danced.
He remembered when the buffalo once thundered across the grasslands.
He watched as the tribe warriors danced.
He remembered when the rivers once ran clear and free of hatred and intolerance.
He watched as the women danced.
He remembered when his people once roamed the lowlands as free men.
He watched as the children danced.
He remembered when the vast open skies once held promise and hope.
He watched as the U.S. Calvary assembled in great numbers from horizon to horizon.
He remembered when White men once came to him and offered peace and honorable trade.
A single tear zigzagged its way down his war-painted face, through aged valleys, between battle-tested scars, across swaths of sun-baked skin, like a mighty river cutting its way through the Great Plains that once belonged to his people.
Chief Ghost Wolf knew this would be the last dance of his people; the last dance of the Lakota.
Michael A. Walker
This fictional piece was inspired and dedicated to the Lakota people who suffered a terrible travesty at the hands of Americans at the Wounded Knee Massacre. I love my country; I love and hold very dear the sacrifices and selfless dedication our warriors have made for us though the ages, but this incident was one of many that has left a black scar across the face of America in the pursuit of liberty and prosperity.
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