The Buffalo by Mike Alma

As old as I am,

I can remember nothing else,

But it wasn’t always like this.

As bold as I was,

I could never challenge them …

Their long, silver-barrelled sticks –

Spurting fire –

Left us painting the plains,

In our blood –

Many thousand bodies

Lying still as the rocks,

While many more

Uselessly paw the sky –

A sky that turns red

Behind their fading eyes …

Cloven hooves

No longer raising the dust

In storms immense …

No more watching horizons disappear –

Sunset fading before the sun, itself,

Goes down,

The herd roaming where it will,

Way beyond horizons,

Of choice …

Soon, there won’t even be one,

As old as I, to remember

The tales of our magnificence …

It wasn’t always like this –



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