The Drums Sill Beat

The drums still beat,
The songs are not silent,
Feet are still in rhythm with the drum,
The dance still sends the dust up into the atmosphere,
Our Mother the Earth vibrates in uniscience,
Feathers are still worn,
Beads of all colors adorn,
Costumes skillfully made,
Pride shown making a statement—I am an Indian,
Horses are still ridden,
There still an important part of us,
Tee pees still stand upon the land,
Smoke still spirals from the smoke hole,
Memories hold,
Stories told,
Around a camp fire legends are remembered,
Battles are revived,
Pride abounds,
In these surrounds,
The children sit in a circle,
Complete attention—every word heard,
The story teller is the pivot of the circle,
The children are quiet—silent,
Absorbing every word,
Every action,
Even what’s not said-they read between the lines,
Nothing is missed,
Their imaginations drift,
Images are seen—and not seen,
Every body’s occupied with their own vision,
To keep their culture-their language—their beliefs,
Is their decision.

by Osceola Waters

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