by Zitkala-S̈a
Those memories dim, from Dust to the Man,
Called Instincts, are trophies won while we ran.
Now various stars where loved ones remain
Are linked to our hearts with Memory-chain.
“In journeying here, the Aeons we’ve spent
Are countless and strange. How well I recall
Old Earth trails: the River Red; above all
The Desert sands burning us with intent.
All these we have passed to learn some new thing.
Oh hear me! Your dead doth lustily sing!
‘Rejoice! Gift of Life pray waste not in wails!
The maker of Souls forever prevails!’ ”
Direct from the Spirit-world came my steed.
The phantom has place in what was all planned.
He carried me back to God and the land
Where all harmony, peace and love are the creed.
In triumph, I cite my joyous return.
The smallest wee creature I dare not spurn.
I sing “Gift of Life, pray waste not in wails!
The Maker of Souls forever prevails!”
THE RED MAN’S AMERICA
(JANUARY–MARCH 1917)
My country! ’tis to thee,
Sweet land of Liberty,
My pleas I bring.
Land where OUR fathers died,
Whose offspring are denied
The Franchise given wide,
Hark, while I sing.
My native country, thee,
Thy Red man is not free,
Knows not thy love.
Political bred ills,
Peyote in temple hills,
His heart with sorrow fills,
Knows not thy love.
Let Lane’s Bill swell the breeze,
And ring from all the trees,
Sweet freedom’s song.
Let Gandy’s Bill awake
All people, till they quake,
Let Congress, silence break,
The sound prolong.
Great Mystery, to thee,
Life of humanity,
To thee, we cling.
Grant our home-land be bright,
Grant us just human right,
Protect us by Thy might,
Great God, our king.
A SIOUX WOMAN’S LOVE FOR HER GRANDCHILD
(OCTOBER–DECEMBER 1917)
Loosely clad in deerskin, dress of flying fringes,
Played a little black-haired maiden of the prairies;
Plunged amid the rolling green of grasses waving,
Brimming o’er with laughter, round face all aglowing.
Thru the oval teepee doorway, grandma watched her,
Narrowed aged eyes reflecting love most tender.
Seven summers since a new-born babe was left her.
Death had taken from her teepee, her own daughter.
Tireless love bestowed she on the little Bright Eyes,—
Eagerly attended her with great devotion.
Seven summers grew affection intertwining.
Bent old age adorned once more with hopes all budding.
Bright Eyes spied some “gaudy-wings” and chased them wildly.
Sipping dew and honey from the flowers, gaily
Flit the pretty butterflies, here now, then yonder.
“These, the green, wee babes,” old grandma mused in wonder.
“One time snug in winter slumber, now in season
Leave their silken cradles; fly with gauzy pinion.”
Shouting gleefully, the child roamed on fearlessly.
Glossy, her long hair, hung in two braids o’er each ear,
Zephyrs whispered to the flowers, at her passing,
Fragrant blossoms gave assent with gracious nodding.
Conscious lay the crystal dew, on bud and leaflet,
Iridescent joys emitting ’till the sun set.
Monster clouds crept in the sky; fell shadows in the prairie.
Grandma, on her cane, leaned breathless, sad and weary.
Listened vainly for the laughter of her darling.
“Where, Oh where, in sudden desert’s endless rolling,
Could the wee girl still be playing?” cried she hoarsely,
Shaking as with ague in that silence somber.
Sobbing bitterly, she saw not men approaching.
Over wrought by sorrow, scarcely heard them talking.
Gusts of wind rushed by; cooled her fever;
Loosed her wisps of hair befitting to a mourner.
“In God’s infinitude, where, Oh where is the grandchild?”
Winds caught up her moaning, shrieked and shook the teepee.
“Dry your tears, old grandma, cease excessive wailing.”
(Empty words addressed they to an image standing.)
“Chieftain’s word of sympathy and warning, hear you!
Moving dust-cloud of an army is on coming;
Though you’ve lost your grandchild, tempt no useless danger.
In the twilight, we must flee hence.” This the order.
Duty done, they paused with heads bowed sadly.
These strong men were used to meeting battles bravely,
Yet the anguish of the woman smote them helpless.
Setting of the sun made further searching fruitless,
Darkness, rife with evil omens surging tempest
Came, obliterating hope’s last ray for rescue.
Fleeing from the soldiers startled Red Men hurried
Riding travois, ponies faced the lightnings, lurid
’Gainst the sudden flashing, angry fires, a figure
Stood, propped by a cane. A soul in torture
Sacrificing life than leave behind her lost one.
Greater love hath no man; love surpassing reason.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
ZITKÁLA-ŠÁ (1876–1936) was a member of the Yankton Dakota (also known as Sioux) tribe. An accomplished violinist, writer, and politician, she co-founded the National Council of American Indians, lobbied Congress to pass the Indian Citizenship Act, and wrote articles for The Atlantic and Harper’s, as well as two books and an opera.
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