The Thunderbird

Rotting upon the red stones of Last Stand Hill,
The medicine ground of Chief Sitting Bull,
Its brow blessed with blood where brave men fell,
And sacred vision found its earthly form,
The sun bleached bones of the Sioux and 7th Calvary,
Are resurrected in the glory of greasy grass creek.


Only one body was spared the scalping blade,
Washed by the women and interred undefiled,
General Custer given due honour as a brave foe,
His grave then graced with the coup of Crazy Horse,
So that his ghost may not rise beneath the moon,
And curse victory in a cage called the reservation.


The sun will dance no more upon the holy Black Hills,
In its war bonnet at dawn where the battle was fought,
For wagon wheels roll and rut our hunting grounds,
Roaming in packs, ravening the earth for gold,
The sacred hoop is broken, and all nature weeps,
As a thunderbird rides the storm, and sets afire the sky.