My Native Grandfather

The hawk in the tree, looks over me

His feathers ruffle, and his eyes pierce into my wounds

The wounds of my ancestors, the rattle snake bite of time

Where the army used us as scouts to hunt our own men

The sin of our skin, the glory for the scorned and misled

My native Grandfather, lays in the hollow of this cave

Where his heart buried in my mind, no other can see the moon

The medicine man can no longer save us, but the spirit of our soul

Will fly with the hawk into the next mountain, and we shall receive

The kiss from our mother, and our native blood will take hold and control

The death of my family will have everlasting meaning, and will sing in the trees

For now and always, where my hands have touched his face