Native Love

Walk further.
It is sad to see the vineyard has lost a son,
but a rose is risen at your name, at the top of the lips of a dove.
Never forgets.

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She dies of love.

An eagle sends chills down her spine.

I have died there
before her and on the roughest surface
but see-through.
In front of the Lord.
Again see-through.

I think she cries in a yellow river.
South, where she doesn't belong.

I'd be lying if I say I can see you.
Where are you?

Upon your rivers, Blackfoot
she has washed her clothes.

A native hand.

The mountain, and sacred beads left there.
All in all, to reach you.

There by the fire I hinted:
"It's up to you."