Be Brave

Across our nation, as one the true people of this land have gathered in the public places to dance the Ghost Dance begun so long ago. The white people thought it had failed that they had won. They did not know that the spirits needed time to gather. As we fluff the feathers of fake Indian headdresses at the crowds. The spirits find their physical forms. Generations of warriors going back to First Man arisen from their troubled rest to take back what should never have been lost.

In gathering places and secret homes the true mission we passed along. From mother to child and cousin to cousin the story of the true Ghost dance has spread. To first nations all across our land brotherhood has at last been shared. True revenge for all that's passed is more than alone we would have dared.

We dance the dance of our ancestors, to entertain, and to distract. They throw bills and coins into the circles drawing close to view the "primitive" display. Behind them rise the vengeful warriors of old. Lifting war clubs, aiming spears and arrows at unprotected backs. They rise in the shadows of buildings built on sacred lands, to climb the stairs and scalp all within.

We dance the dance of anger, so much of our blood has been spilled. The time comes for retribution in the hands of the ones who fell. They died of disease, diplomacy, and greed. Weapons we too should use. But the dance calls for violence, for war declared again. Your bodies they shall pile and burn as our ancestors were dealt. In the heat of renewing flame your faces they will melt.

We dance the dance of mercy. So quickly they will kill. They'll beat in heads and stab through the hearts of the young no suffering will they feel. But in anguish, the rest will die, in the painful manners of death, the warriors will deal.

We dance the dance of the patient revenge. For centuries did they wait. With each new year and old man dead the numbers of warriors grew. So to did the numbers of the living grow to carry on the cause. Now the warriors will strike indiscriminately killing young and old. For centuries you thought us meek but this will show us bold.

We dance the dance of deception, learned from our white enemy. They thought our revenge was stripping them of their wealth in our casinos. That was just to make them think we no longer cared about genocide. A warrior rises for every man woman and child descended from white settlers or invaders from other lands. The ones brought against their will we will welcome as our brothers. They too have suffered at white hands.

We dance in celebration and the war clubs fall and spears begin to fly. So as you sit and read this story poem do try to be entertained, and when you hear the bowstring pulled back, remember to be brave.

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