LITTLE BIGHORN
The gentle breeze blowing soft
Upon the silent plains
The amber glow of summer sun
Last light of the day
The howling wolf from mountains far
The
graceful eagle soars
The night before the fiery hell
The peace at Little Bighorn
The
rifle rounds are stored and stashed
Within
an easy reach
They
check the lines, shouting names
Searching
for a breach
Three
hundred strong, they march and pray
Asking
that their Lord
Guide
the General’s heart and mind
The
road to Little Bighorn
The
visions of darkness, moons before
Warned
of those to die
“Soldiers
falling into camp
Like
grasshoppers from the sky”
The
words of Sitting Bull, from spirit worlds
The
rally of the sworn
To
stand and die for their land
The
hope of Little Bighorn
The
forming of the treaty
Lakota
and Cheyenne
Drawn
by winds and dancing stars
To
make another stand
The
trails from far to Greasy Grass
The
making of a lore
The
braves that moved in for the kill
Surrounding
Little Bighorn
Painted as the dawning sky
Proudly standing tall
They sat astride their mighty steeds
The hammer set to fall
The thousands strong, they dreamed of this
The day that it was born
Upon the myths and legends told
The tale of Little Bighorn
The soldiers marched, steadily on
Toward the place that fates
Had chosen for the blood to run
Toward the painted face
The fields of green, their boots would tread
Where ground would soon be torn
And then a man boldly cried
“March to Little Bighorn”
The soldiers heart, with all its care
For those he’d left behind
Was pierced for sins of greater men
Who ordered him to ride
The proud old man, with yellow hair
Too proud to sheath his sword
Spurred his mount, and dared to ride
To the jaws of Little Bighorn
One by one, they fell around
The braves still seemed to come
But the proud old man, with yellow hair
Wouldn’t drop his gun
And the fury of men betrayed by those
Whose honor wasn’t more
Than that which drifts with the wind
The scourge of Little Bighorn
The
arrows flew and crimson streams
Flowed
from those who passed
As
they dropped to the ground
Upon
the broken Greasy Grass
The
widows of men who fell that day
And
all their woeful mourns
Could
be heard across the plains
The
fall of Little Bighorn
The
proud old man, with yellow hair
Too
proud to raise the white
Rallied
again, and called to arms
Those
to stand and fight
The
soldiers crawled to the proud old man
The
weary, tired, and worn
They
could feel the hand of death
Choking
Little Bighorn
Battle
cries joined the wind
Melting
strongest minds
Of
the men that fought to live
Trying
to survive
The
smell of powder filled the air
And
the sun upon the corpse
Of
the first to fight and die
Losing
Little Bighorn
And the proud old man, with yellow hair
Stood up one last time
He raised his sword in prideful dare
Beneath the stars and stripes
And a thousand arrows pierced his heart
Just as was forewarned
And the proud old man, with yellow hair
Died at Little Bighorn
