White men turn the earth. The last red man is laid to rest, his memory to become a myth. Death, in its wisdom, sheds a tear. The Manitoo howls in every tree, hawk, and waterfall. The wind echoes an invisible prayer, welcoming honored guests, the invisible dead of his tribe.
Fliss Zakaszewska
18/10/2017 10:06:32 pm
This is so lovely. Comments are closed.
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"Classic"
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