If I Were an Indian

    

If I Were an Indian

by Riverwatch

If I were an Indian,

I would walk in nature, talking to my friends, the trees.
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If I were an Indian,

I would look at the inferiority of the pale faces and be at rest within my soul.

If I were an Indian,

I would look upward to the Great Spirit and rest in the peace that all will be well.

If I were an Indian,

I would drink only fresh flowing clear water from Mother Earth and bathe in it daily.

If I were an Indian,

I would be monogamous and I would die for my family if need be.

If I were an Indian,

I would mold families from the remains, the disinfranchized left-overs, the bits and pieces of humanity found on the landscape.

If I were an Indian,

I would listen more than I speak, so as to surprise the pale-faces.

If I were an Indian.

I am an Indian.

I sit under my silk tree and cry to my tree, my best friend.

I am an Indian.

I listen intently to one and all, including the trees.

I am an Indian.

My family is ever changing, ever growing, ever changing.

I am an Indian.

I find the waterfall and stand with head bowed, long dark hair loose over my face, letting the water splash over my back.

I am an Indian.

I am a hybrid.

I sit under my silk tree and cry outloud and noisey to my silk tree, sometimes screaming.

I am a hybrid.

I listen intently and speak many many words.

I am a hybrid.

I walk separate and apart in nature, fearing man yet knowing I am surrounded by rocks and trees who know me and wish me well.

I am a hybrid.

I long for fresh water even as I drink chemicals.

I long for the waterfall on my back and long dyed hair.

I am a hybrid.

I am too fierce to be monogamous and too proud to be polygamous.

I am a hybrid.

My family is ever changing, ever growing, ever changing, while I whine about change and judge the ungodly.

I am a hybrid.

Great Spirit, have mercy.

Remember me when I was an Indian and judge me not for the Way being lost.

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