Grandpa
The winter has not been kind to him, this man
that I call friend.
The years have taken their toll on him, and
soon his life will end.
Till then, we'll go to memories of
days of long ago.
We'll talk of children, hunt,and pelts and
winter's heavy snow.
His braids have lost their luster, his feet are
always cold.
His hand are twisted, his eyes are weak. It's
hell to grow so old.
Progress is all around us, the tipi is out of
date.
Our children make money gambling, we wonder
at their fate.
Some days we fish, we hunt no more, the
forest is a car lot now.
Our corn comes from a can, and a bottle
replaced our cow.
I pray he doesn't live to see more changes
taking place,
especially I don't want him to see the
annihilation of the human race.
Copyrighted 1998---Singing Feather