by
Steve Perry
The Loon is talking to us...
remember Migisi's screech.
I hear the Raven's caw rise from the lake. Listen to the river run.
A fire burns low in my camp...
the embers reflect my shadow.
The air is still in silence.
My blanket is covered with particles of grey soot.
I think often of the stories shared with me by my Elders.
At Waabno Gimaak.
At Wakinawkising, by the sacred fire,
and the times at Larry's, sitting on the couch by the wood stove.
In the longhouse, listening to Bill's voice. Time stood still.
As children, our Ancestors were beaten for speaking their Native language.
My father did not know his mother's native tongue.
Today, things are too busy.
I pray that the stories will not be forgotten.
We mourn with white crosses and tarnished silver icons.
There are fewer and fewer Sacred Fires.
It hurts my heart.
As I walk outside toward the darkness,
I remember the Elder's voices, sharing, and caring
about the next 7 generations.
Talking not writing,
in hope that it would be passed on...
that which is written on our people's tongues.
