A strange wind blows, a drifting haze,
Alone he walks, the mountain maze.
All, is still as death, no birds fly,
Strange redness, paints the Western Sky.
Beside a stream, he watches fish float by,
He stops to think, and, still he knows not why?
So many beasts, lay dead beside the trails,
"Why this Grate Spirit---Why this?" now he wails.
Now, a tightness, fills his heaving chest,
He knows this day, he'll sleep, his final rest.
Great Spirit, blinks, a tear filled eye,
Then bids, kiss loving child, good-bye. |
