The old man sits cross-legged in the sun,
a blanket draped about his feeble frame.
The tourists gawk while seeking weekend fun,
not guessing how the old chief hates this game.
His people once stood proud upon this land.
The earth, itself, was mother to his race.
Freely they walked with nature, hand in hand,
demanding little more than food and space.
With precision, the craftsmen shaped the bow
and chiseled indentations in the flint.
The hunter drew the string taut and let go.
So silently the fang of death was sent.
Children played, while women did their sewing
and ground the grain, industriously engaged.
Young braves danced at night by campfires' glowing
and listened to the wisdom of the aged.
Although his world grows small, he's not ashamed.
Invading soldiers forced his people back.
His tribesmen died for land usurpers claimed.
The tale is written on a small bronze plaque.
The chief is old, and time is winding down.
The earth he loved will soon reclaim its own.
He dreams of a happier hunting ground
where spirits dwell, and no man walks alone.
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