Cold and worn, spirit, feet.
Walk on past the fallen.
Their faith-man spoke of feast plenty to celebrate survival.
I wonder if he’d thought of us who won’t make a spring arrival.
I speak their tongue, I read their words, but not I know their greed.
For land, for sea, for tree and sky – so much more than need.
I have no thanks that I can give, save only for my brother.
He marches on beside me still – gone father, child and mother.
If thanks they give, the reason shouldn’t be,
for feast in face of starvation –
better they should offer thanks for so small a Cherokee Nation…