Upon the stones of the Prairie,
the Indian stares in nostalgia...
If only that could suffice-
that which brings purpose
to every grain and fibre.
The Spirit billows about,
gusting every cinder
in a calumet
to a column of eagle’s thermal
and soaring hawk.
Across the vast azure,
the melancholy of ages past
tremble and diminish.
The breath,
crisp and sweet,
filling his chest,
it alone has rhythm enough
to pulse into oblivion.
Upon the stones of the Prairie,
the Indian stares in humble contentment...
©G. Hermens, 16-03-2010
the Indian stares in nostalgia...
If only that could suffice-
that which brings purpose
to every grain and fibre.
The Spirit billows about,
gusting every cinder
in a calumet
to a column of eagle’s thermal
and soaring hawk.
Across the vast azure,
the melancholy of ages past
tremble and diminish.
The breath,
crisp and sweet,
filling his chest,
it alone has rhythm enough
to pulse into oblivion.
Upon the stones of the Prairie,
the Indian stares in humble contentment...
©G. Hermens, 16-03-2010