Heritage
I hear the drums within the clouds,
the music in the leaves.
I feel a touch, they all reach out...
ancestors who have needs.
I feel the sail beneath my feet,
and grains of time caress.
I feel the earth deep in my soul,
but what will come of this?
My blood is not the proven kind,
it measures no amount.
I have no number from the whites,
and my brothers' turned me out!
I hear the flutes upon the wind,
the voices from the sky.
I feel the touch, they all reach out,
ancestors who have died.
I have no ties, or friends of kind,
no one to share with me.
the red path died long ago...
still...
I am a Cherokee.
the music in the leaves.
I feel a touch, they all reach out...
ancestors who have needs.
I feel the sail beneath my feet,
and grains of time caress.
I feel the earth deep in my soul,
but what will come of this?
My blood is not the proven kind,
it measures no amount.
I have no number from the whites,
and my brothers' turned me out!
I hear the flutes upon the wind,
the voices from the sky.
I feel the touch, they all reach out,
ancestors who have died.
I have no ties, or friends of kind,
no one to share with me.
the red path died long ago...
still...
I am a Cherokee.
Please login or register
You must be logged in or register a new account in order to
Login or Registerleave comments/feedback and rate this poem.