In shadows cast by secrets deep, “Grandfather, who was he?” I asked,
My mother’s eyes, a tempest’s dance, flashed anger, then a pained glance.
A question with a wound to keep, yet a child’s heart inquisitive of the past.
A sadness, deep, unspoken grief, a story bound by silence, brief.

“We don’t go there,” her words a shield, “We do not speak, he’s dead to me,”
Yet persistence danced within my core, yearning for the truth, for more.
A painful truth, forever sealed. Yet I yearned to grasp the roots of ancestry.
“He was an Indian,” she let slip, but then, her sorrow tightened shame’s grip.

Generations weep, a silent flood, ancestral wounds, the echo of Spirit Raven lures.
Spirit of the Raven, black and wise, whisper to me truths, dispel the lies.
We are red by blood, though whitewashed wood, the pain persists, and loss endures.
No Indian name, no tribal song, my Raven sings and in my veins, I belong.

With hunger in my heart to know, I pleaded for more, a quest profound,
“If you persist, you will not be my daughter,” she said, a threat born of a past misread.
I pressed, relentlessly, for tales to grow. In silence, my questions resound.
Whitewashed yet, the Raven’s flight, speaks of lineage, hidden from sight.

Over the years, morsels of truth would seep, but never enough to quench my hunger, my thirst,
Yet blood persists, despite the fray, a heritage lost, in night’s array.
A drip-feed of secrets, a legacy to keep, a tale of a grandfather, and of a family cursed.
The Spirit Raven, a feathered creed, a guide to where my roots bleed.

I learned of a past, a love society defied, my grandfather, a phantom’s face,
A white girl of wealth, a boy who was red, they with-child, disowned- forced to wed.
A silence kept, a truth denied, lurking in the shadows of time and space.
“Do not seek more!” my mother said in stern despair as her anger cut through the air.

A tribe unknown, a heritage lost, “I am blood,” I cried in vain,
A white bird in a world of shade, Whitewashed, like the Spirit Raven who made
tears fall into a river of pain, a heavy cost. Yet whitewashed, I felt the strain,
of a lineage stained by hidden shame, a grandfather I could not name.

In the shadow of the Spirit Raven’s flight, blood binds us to the ancient flood,
In the hush of a curious child’s plea, I sought the roots of my legacy.
A heritage hidden in the night. We are blood, though whitewashed wood.
A tale of whispers, a history veiled, in my mother’s gaze, emotions sailed.

He-a loving father, in times of peace, but war’s cruel touch, a demon’s embrace,
The man returned, a stranger in guise, drunk on war’s poison, cruel in his eyes.
A gentle soul, love’s sweet release, transformed into a specter, a haunting face.
“Your grandfather,” she spoke at last, a demon born from battle’s cast.

“We do not talk of it!” her words declared, disowned by kin, friends turned away,
In my mother’s eyes, a tempest’s brew, flashed anger, sadness, a silent rue.
“You’ll never meet him.” pain ensnare a father changed by war’s dismay.
Through veils of time, the story weaves, generational wounds only the heart conceives.

A heritage fractured, a lineage scarred, no tribe to claim, no ancestral call,
Can I call myself an Indian, I yearn. Being whitewashed, still, I burn.
For within me is a flame unmarred, in my veins, the blood ties enthrall.
The Spirit Raven, my companion unseen, a shadowed guide, in the in-between.

In the pain of loss, in the silence sown, whitewashed, yet the blood runs true,
Call me White Bird, in a world colored red. Spirit Raven, guides me to my path ahead.
I carry the weight of history unknown, a paradox, a mystery to pursue.
White Bird flying, whitewashed, yet Spirit Raven’s call, sings of ancestry, binding all.