a destroyed village - runs down…to the mud.
As water rushes, then overwhelms
the banks - along the shores
of destiny, lays the soil of men
and their worn cloths.
Their knees are skinned
and so are the bloody red hands
of the coats - like Custers last stand.
In the black hills of the greasy lands
no bands play, but seven-beats
of an Indian drum - are heard.
The winds change and clouds reform
as the feathers - float away.