Vision of the Wolf

BY CAROLE NICHOLS

There in the trees on the mountain high,
Stands a lone figure, aged and worn;
Staring into the heart of a white man's world,
Where once only red men were born.

A place called home by a proud, strong race,
The plains, lush with life, wild and free,
Where they hunted and lived by simple rules,
Now covered by white man's industry.

The valleys, green with unspoiled beauty,
The mighty rivers which covered the land;
The gentle hills and magestic mountains,
Perverted and penned by white man's hand.

Gone are the thundering buffalo,
Which the red man hunted, only to live;
Killed by a race that hunts for the sport,
And the vicarious pleasure the kill would give.

Gone are the eagles in all their glory,
Who lived and nested in the mountains high;
Who soared and sang and lived so free,
Gracing the blue of the Great Spirit's sky.

Gone is the red man, so proud and brave,
Slaughtered and caged like some animal herd;
Who learned too late, and at great cost,
You can never trust a white man's word.

The old wolf gives a chilling, echoing howl,
At the vision his old, wise eyes sees;
The world once his and the red man's is dead,
Paradise has been brought to her knees.

The wolf and the Indian were true brothers,
Their lives and beliefs were much the same;
The land is for all, just take what you need,
But that was before the white man came.