Across the long baron plains of North America,
Stands the native's camp in their hundreds,
With the beautiful feathers waving high,
And beaded tassels, trophies and decors.
Standing there under the great northern star,
Enjoying the warm breeze on her weathered face,
Her long ebony locks dancing,
The saddened face and tears of pain.
Her tears are burnt away by the blazing sun,
The braids in her hair of crimson and turquoise,
Carved beads with profession and attention to detail,
Flamboyant colours standing out in the shadows.
Wearing a soft suede dress with tassels,
Made from thick buffalo hide with ragged seems,
And holding a braid of long black hair in her hand,
And not loosening her grip at all.
Staring into the sunset of wild vivid colours,
The wondrous colours that tell her story,
And the brilliance of the blazing reds and oranges,
Standing there with the emotional anger in her eyes.
Not knowing what life may blow through the whispering winds,
Perhaps a new partner after the time for mourning ends,
For she is the one they named: -
"Shakes An Angry Fist At The Sky"...
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