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At Wounded Knee

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Some stains,
darker than blood,
cannot be erased,
even by the snows
of a hundred winters.
And the sounds
of sobbing,
like that of shattering bones,
can still be heard
in the wind
at Wounded Knee.
Don’t bother
putting your ear
to the ground.
The dead refuse to speak.
For the truth
is in the wind
at Wounded Knee.
Just listen to the wind.

About oldetexian

blogs: snake mountain muse the face of hunger

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