My homeland. I miss it.
Native Drumming. Native drumming, lone wolf cries Moonless night and blackened skies Wind moving slowly as scents trail by Smoke, fear, and tragedy carried up high. Water ripples as horses pass through Hoofbeats as heartbeats, a match to a shoe Lightning flashes on distant dry plains We wait for the rhythm of thundering rains. Native drumming, more wolves will cry Beyond this battlefield what is left of the sky Ends in darkness while fading in light The soldiers that lie here will no longer fight. Shadows running on a shuddering wind Just the ghosts of those who have sinned Against the Spirit, against these Hills Once Black and now painted with blood from the kills. Native drumming, no wolves to reply. All is gone but the echo of why.