Title: Real Dream Writer: Betsy Rodino

When I was young just a little child, I had dreams that were kind of wild.

I'd dream of wagon trains which were heading west, I wasn't fearful because father knew best.

The ride was bumpy and often long. The stops we made were filled with song.

The wagons in circles we'd stop at night, Each family together all sharing their plight.

The attacks began in the early morn. They came from everywhere without a warn.

The wagons were emptied all hands were used. There was no discrimination Indians didn't pick and choose.

The arrows flew and shots were fired. The flames shot up like a funeral pyre.

When it was over most were dead. I remember thinking this is all in my head.

I survived it and my family was gone. Why or how? I was all alone.

I couldn't have been but three or four, The dream has remained for evermore.

BACK to Poetry Archive!!

BACK to the Main Page!!