The Cheyenne Brave His hair was once as black as ink, Now cascading like a winters river, As white as the first fall of snow, Over time, changing from night to day. His face is a painted canvas of his life, Each line a paint stroke of his soul, His eyes speak without a voice, Pouring wisdom like the desert rains. His stories of life are spoken books, Without pages, quill or ink, Memories that are tattooed on his heart, Passed down for young blood to soak up. As the evening clouds swallow up the stars, The arms of the fire reach up into the night sky, The heavy animal skin wrapped around his body, As if protecting him in the womb of the earth. Dreams float on the ebony night sky, Caught in the webs of dream catchers, and as he joins the land of dreams, He is young once more, this Cheyenne Brave. Buffalo, carpet the wide open plains, The earth trembles, but not out of fear, For when these powerful spirits run as one, The world joins in with their thunderous dance. The Eagle reigns as lord of the skies, Soaring above the storms of nature, So high as if to touch the sun itself, Flying majestically on its throne of air. He wakes and opens his eyes on the windows of reality, He hears his ancestors call him on the star light breeze, His time has come to ride forever with the buffalo, In the land of spirit, hes called home, this Cheyenne Brave.
Posted on: Thu, 05 Dec 2013 03:53:25 +0000