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The Winds of Time and Wounded Knee

Listen quietly and you will hear it,
The wind carrying the sound of weeping over
The massacre at Wounded Knee.
Some say the blood of men, women, and children
Still seeps from the ground.
Some say that the ghosts of innocent children,
Can still be seen, running through the snow,
Their eyes large with terror.
But I, Big Foot, half-brother of Sitting Bull,
Weep at the memory of Wounded Knee,
Cry out in anguish when I recall
My illness, pneumonia.
Just when my people needed me to be strong,
I was weak with disease.
We were disarmed, cold, and hungry,
When the Seventh Calvary
Took an accidental shot as a cry for war
And fired back.
We fought for our lives with knives and tomahawks,
While their cannons and explosives spit fire at us.
We were like sparrows fighting eagles.
150 died and dozens were left to freeze in the blizzard.
Later, my people and I, were buried in mass graves,
While the soldiers stood on the mounds,
Which held our lifeless bodies, and received medals of honor.
The moaning of the wind mixes with
The cries of our great grandchildren
Who seek to remember and honor us,
With dances, wailings, and a white flag
Symbol of their hope for world peace.
If only the winds were silent,
Perhaps, I, too, could hope.

© Barbara Dudley

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