Khe Sapa

They all wait
wanting their
pounds of our flesh,
I got 200 of them,
line up, take your shot,
bring your worst,
try to get yours.

I will hang
their hearts from
my lodgepole,
and wear their teeth
strung on strands of their
own hair....

Till silence again,
becomes a blessing,
after the songs,
of War & Death,
fade into the smoke
from our campfires,
where our children sleep
dreaming of the buffalo,
running the prairies
in the shadow
of the Black Hills.