Behind these walls that close me in
A beaded rob, a drum of skin,
A warrior’s bon­net handed down
From Chief­tain father, wise, renown
A book that told a white man’s creed
A bro­ken arrow and a reed
Cut down in some far prairie glade
Where wild deer ambled, unafraid.
Where air was pure the river’s clean

But now the home we held in trust
Is sad, with acre’s worn to dust.
Tall cities came to rise and fall
Like fever charts against a wall
My days are short but this I know
A har­vest comes as peo­ples sow.
My her­itage? Some trea­sures old,
A red mans dream midst white mans gold.

By Iola Seamer