The Indian Mother spoke of lore,
of the crazy Eve pinning fate’s door.
In the black alley, apparitions creep,
while spirits of the sky quietly weep.
The brutal enemy, the barefaced embrace,
when I started to think, I saw her face.
Spiritual singing filled the air,
a pure now astro of tribal prayer.
Because her eyes were two flames bright,
they burned the brutal enemy’s might.
Sad tribal songs like a spirit bird cried,
when the symbols came to me, denied.
The fawn of love, and fleeing doe,
with ornate verse bound against the flow.
The donnish white eagle now soars,
in the white marble’s endless wars.
Out of the this world, I rise anew,
A white thing with spirit wings, the sky in view.
Two homelands call, both in lands the same,
honor in symbols, yet nothing to gain.
WoPoLi 
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